


Seven Minutes In Heaven

by Unknown



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, BPD, British, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, English as a second language, Foster Care, German, High School, High School AU, Immigration & Emigration, Insomnia, M/M, Medication, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Violence, Napoleon and Gaby are cousins technically, Panic, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Russian, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Seven Minutes In Heaven, Slurs, Social Anxiety, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Napoleon and Gaby are cousins and Napoleon moves into a new school his senior year and runs into the broody, Russian student, Illya, who has enough troubles of his own living with his Uncle Oleg - who refuses to accept that Illya needs help to deal with his mental health - to even consider dealing with the fact that he finds the new boy at school to be beautiful if not annoying. </p><p>And then, of course, Napoleon and Illya get stuck at a party playing 7 Minutes In Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ativan Halen

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my own mental health issues and how I have been coping. Writing about it helps, btw.  
> Also inspired by Fall Out Boys _7 Minutes In Heaven (Ativan Halen)_. Pete Wentz is, to this day, still one of my heroes when it comes to championing your own mental health and staying alive. Bless him. 
> 
> OKAY! SO! With that being said **PLEASE READ THE TAGS THEY ARE THERE BECAUSE THIS WHOLE DAMN STORY CAN BE TRIGGERING AS FUCK LEMME TELL YOU FRIENDS**.
> 
> I'd also like to insert a disclaimer here: issues with mental health are different for everyone, even they have been diagnosed with something similar or "the same" disorder. We all have different experiences, friends. MY anxiety/depression/PTSD, etc experiences may be different that yours or people who know's experiences. Keep that in mind. 
> 
> ANOTHER DISCLAIMER: I speak German mostly fluently, but I'm not perfect at it yet. SO! If any German speakers are out there and they read this and go, "Holy fuck, his German is atrocious!" PLEASE COME HELP ME. 
> 
> (Edited 08/28/17) Also: I speak minimal Russian, so it may be choppy/incorrect/weird. The Italics near the original Russian are what I mean to say in English. Be patient with me please! I am trying! 
> 
> Okay. That's it for now, I think. Enjoy the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: InNovaFertAnimus gave me some German tips, so those have been corrected/changed!

Illya clenched his hands into fists on his knees, one finger sneaking out of the bunch to tap-tap-tap on his knee cap. He used to scratch with his nails, but after one too many questions on why his hands and face were always clawed after an episode, he picked up the habit of tapping whenever agitated. 

And he was agitated, especially now as his Uncle Oleg walked out of the doctor’s office with a frown of disappointment on his face. Disappointment, because Illya had become a burden instead of the son that Oleg never had. He shook his head at Illya and walked out to the car as Illya’s doctor knelt in front of him. He felt small, like a helpless child, and refused to look the man in the face. 

“This is a prescription for Ativan,” Dr. Hoffman said, handing Illya a sheet of paper. “I milligram. You can take it as needed. It’ll help with the panic attacks, alright?” Illya finally looked up and took the sheet of paper, swallowing hard at the scratchy script across it. “Illya, I want you to take it when you need it. Don’t deprive yourself of feeling better for foolish reasons. I discussed this with your uncle. He has... made it clear that your medicating is up to you.” 

“I’m already on medication,” Illya grunted out. He wished Dr. Hoffman spoke Russian so he could more comfortably express himself in his mother-tongue. 

“Yes, for the depression, anxiety, BPD, and PTSD,” Dr. Hoffman conceded. 

“And insomnia,” Illya grouched, and though several of his medications served more than one function, he was still on three separate prescriptions and hated to add a fourth. He was weak, wasn’t he?

“Those are by day. This is when you need it, alright? There’s nothing wrong with needling a little medical help, Illya. You’ve been through enough.” Illya flinched at the words. He should have never broken down in front of Dr. Hoffman. Not if it was going to be used against him. “Here’s another sheet,” Dr. Hoffman continued. His voice was hushed now. “This is the number of a friend of mine. A psychologist. She works with young adults.” Illya tensed up as Dr. Hoffman put the piece of paper onto his lap. “Give her a call. When you’re ready.”

And that was the problem, Illya thought as he practically ran out of the doctor’s office and to Oleg in the car. He would never be ready. 

* * *

 

“You’re looking grumpier than usual.”

Illya grunted and stubbed out his cigarette before he turned to face Gaby. She was bundled in a peacoat with a navy blue nautical sailor-style dress underneath, with matching pearl earrings studded in her ears. She looked like a darling of the sixties or the fifties. Illya was a bit muddled this morning and his fashion history escaped him. Shit, maybe it was the forties style he was thinking…

“Illya!” Gaby said and he snapped out of his own head and looked at her.

“I am fine,” he responded, pushing past her and making his way into their large and underfunded school. God, he hated this place.

“That is what you said last time something happened with your uncle. And I only found out about it a week later when you refused to come out of the bathroom!” she squawked, following him in. Illya rolled his eyes and bent his head to look down at her. Her head barely brushed his shoulder, she was so small.

“This has nothing to do with Oleg,” Illya insisted. At her slit-eyed gaze, he sighed. “Mostly is doctor.”

“What happened with your doctor?” she asked, talking him by the wrist and dragging him into the seat next to her in their first class or the day. Ah, history. Maybe this would prompt the correct fashion era Illya had been trying to pinpoint in his mind.

“More medication,” he mumbled and the soft look of pity on Gaby’s face cut right through him. He knew she didn’t mean it the way he took it, but it still hurt. He should not be pitied. Illya hunkered down in his chair, trying to make himself look smaller than he was. He knew it looked foolish, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care too much. He just needed to be small. Just for right now.

“Was it because of Saturday?” Gaby asked, a gentle hand on his hunched shoulder. Illya didn’t want to think about Saturday, but images came unbidden into his mind. He clenched his teeth, thought about the Ativan in his backpack, the Ativan he was too afraid to take. There was a breathing exercise Dr. Hoffman had suggested to him and he did it now, breathing in for a count of three, holding his breath for a count of three, and then exhaling for a count of three. He did it three times before he could unclench his jaw and hands.

“Possibly Saturday,” Illya conceded. When he looked to the side, Gaby was sitting still at her desk, face oddly blank.

“Possibly, you say,” she responded with a snort. Her hand slid down his back and she finally took it back into her lap. “Illya, you need to accept the things that happen as they are. Do not ignore connections of things that bother you and how they affect you afterward. It helps no one.”

“You do not know,” Illya struggled to say. She didn’t know how he hadn’t been able to sleep for days at a time back in Russia due to night terrors about his parents. She didn’t know how Oleg ignored him if he was acting off, had made it clear that if Illya couldn’t control himself and his outbursts of anger and emotion there would be consequences to pay. She didn’t know what it was like to lose control of your body, to have gaps in your memory, to go so numb that you start to fear you can’t _feel_ anything so you hack away at yourself and –

“Illya?”

“Fine. I am fine,” he grated out. “Talk. About anything. Please,” he asked. Anything to distract him.

Gaby knew what was happening and obliged him. “So, my foster dad’s sister just moved to town with her new husband and her son from her previous marriage,” she started and Illya bit back a mix between sob and laughter at how much of a soap opera her life sometimes sounded. “So, I got a foster cousin and dad got to see his sister after almost a decade of talking every week on the phone or Skype.” She shrugged and Illya started to match his breathing to hers, calming himself inch by painstaking inch. “I’ve talked to her son a few times over the years before this. He’s funny. Bit of a flirter, if you know what I mean. But he’s pretty.”

That caught Illya’s attention. “Pretty?” He wondered if she could hear the disbelief in his voice.

“Yes, pretty,” Gaby laughed. “His face is all angles and he’s pasty white with inky black hair. Big blue eyes pop, like this.” She patted his arm so he would look at her, and then framed her eyes with her hands like binoculars, before opening her eyes as wide as possible and then fanning her fingers out from the sides of her head in a mock firework explosion. “Beautiful.” She giggled.

“I doubt he is that attractive, Gaby,” Illya said with a frown.

“Er ist sehr schön. Ich verspreche es dir,” Gaby said with another laugh.

“What does this matter to me?” Illya grumbled.

“ _Why_ does this matter to me,” Gaby corrected casually. “And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it does. You can meet him and tell me.” She nudged him and winked. “Party this weekend at the Vinciguerra’s. You know how great Alexander’s parties are.”

“And you know his girlfriend will kill you if she sees you with him. Again,” Illya reminded her, feeling better. He could breathe now and he saw that Gaby realized he was doing better as well.

“Victoria can try, but she’s no match for my own Russian bodyguard, now is she?” Gaby said playfully, poking Illya in the side, where she knew he was particularly ticklish. Instead of laughing like a normal human being, Illya growled and twisted away from her.

“I don’t know what bodyguard is this, but he has my condolences,” Illya responded.

“Oh Illya, don’t put up that front. You’re going _and_ you know you would not let her do anything to me,” Gaby goaded and wasn’t that the truth? Illya remembered, back in his first year in this school and this country, meeting Gaby. She had been just as small as she was now, but thinner and awkwardly claiming her teenage body with all the grace of a newborn foal walking in its first iron shoes. He had still thought her beautiful. For one month they had become friends, German the only language they shared as he learned English over Russian and she helped, her British guardian teaching her the language when she went into his care at the age of six. For a month after that, they briefly dated, awkward kisses as he bent down and she stood on her tip-toes, hushed endearments exchanged in German in dark corners of the school. For a month after that, they broke up and avoided each other like the plague, both having personal issues that were getting in the way of what they could be. The month after, they had collided in school and Gaby had made a show of dragging Illya into one of the gender neutral restrooms for a stern talking to. When they emerged hours later at the end of the day, they were thick as thieves and once again the best of friends, putting their past to bed and finding piece in the choices they had made.

Now, Illya was sure she was his best friend. He would rather have no one else by his side as he bitched and complained about the world they lived in.

Thinking she had won her argument, Gaby smiled and rolled her eyes as their teacher finally walked in, beginning the lesson without a look to the students, fumbling his first words and mixing up dates as they pertained to the history of the Cold War. Illya and Gaby shared a look and she ducked her head to hide her laughter.

“This man cannot teach,” Illya said with a shake of his head. “And I have already learned this in Russian schools.” He frowned as he looked at what was being written on the board. “That is not Russian way.”

“Welcome to America, comrade,” Gaby teased and Illya was finally able to breathe easy. Today would be a good day.

As long as he somehow got Gaby to forget about that stupid party.

* * *

 

Which, of course, didn’t actually happen.

Friday came around and there Gaby was at his front door with a large smile on her face as he tried not to groan. He had been playing a game of chess, on his own, when the doorbell had rung and he had been ordered by Oleg to check who was at their house this late at night. Illya had learned not to refuse his uncle, so he had gone. But this…

“Go home, Little Chop Shop Girl,” Illya growled, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“I tell you about my summer job as a mechanic _once_ and the nick-name sticks,” she griped, crossing her arms on her chest. Her bracelets dangled and caused Illya to look up and take her outfit into account. Her dress was short and bright orange trimmed in white, her bangles and earrings fitting it all perfectly. The small white hat on her head brought the entire out fit together and matched her shoes. Illya sometimes was a bit jealous of her sense of style. He had given her pointers once or twice when they first met, but by the time they were back in the best friend stage of their relationship, she had far surpassed him in terms of fashion sense. He liked to think he contributed a bit, but whenever he suggested it, she laughed in his face.

“Yes, but you also mention that you want to be mechanic as adult job. Is not lucrative business,” Illya said in response.

“I’ll make it lucrative,” she insisted. “Now, let’s go. You’re not going out like that.”

“I’m not going out. At all,” Illya said, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Says who?” Gaby snapped.

“Oleg,” Illya said with a shrug, secretly happy that he didn’t even ask but knew it was a strong enough argument as opposed to his actual, truthful _I don’t want to go_ excuse.

“You actually asked Oleg?” Gaby said in surprise. And there went his excuse.

“Ah, well, not technically. But – but I don’t have to! I know what he will say.”

“What who will say about what, Kuryakin?” Illya cringed at the voice of his uncle behind him. Fuck.

“I was asking Illya to accompany me to student function,” Gaby began, lying through her teeth so perfectly and sweetly that Illya was surprised her foster father let her leave the house in the morning. “Our conservative group at school is arguing that the liberals in town have taken us down, mainly through the use of the rising capitalistic market.” She looked at Illya with wide eyes. “I don’t want to go alone. Who knows what they’ll do to an unarmed, innocent woman in the crowd?” Illya resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Not only could Gaby fire a gun perfectly, but she was also a black belt in Shatokan Karate. What a liar.

“Illya,” Oleg snapped. “You would leave a smart, young woman alone to that?”

“Well, sir, she-”

“And for such a noble cause? You could do well to learn something from these anti-liberal groups at your school. Get changed. Go.” And with that, he pointed a hand up the stairs to where Illya’s room was. Illya wanted to argue, but Oleg had that look on his face, the one that actually scared Illya to bits, so he nodded and did as he was bid. He threw on a black turtle neck with grey pants and black boots. As a second thought, he put his hat on and adjusted his father’s watch strap around his wrist. He refused to go anywhere without it. With one last turn of regret around his room, Illya snatched his brown coat off his desk where he had been planning to read _The Brothers Karamazov_ in its original Russian form for fun tonight when he had been planning on going to bed. Never mind that now.

By the time he made it downstairs, Gaby had charmed Oleg with her native German speech, Oleg responding in kind. He looked up to where Illya was coming down the stairs and nodded in satisfaction.

“Die Kinder der Zukunft,” he said with a hint of pride. God, Illya thought. He was acting like they were baby communists in the making. Just the thought made Illya feel wrong and gross, so with a smile and a polite word or two, he dismissed both himself and Gaby, and practically ran them both outside to his car.

“Ich hasse dich,” he hissed as they got into the car. He grit his teeth and stomped on the gas pedal as he pulled out of the driveway.

Beside him, Gaby laughed without a care in the world and clapped her hands. “I should be a spy!”

With a groan, Illya rolled his eyes, his irritation subsiding. “You do that.”

* * *

 

This was why he hated parties. It was just a bunch of under-21s getting drunk off of cheap booze and alternately vomiting and having sex in weird places. On the wall beside him, two people fitting this description were currently in the latter stage, dry humping each other as hard as they could with red solo cups full of whatever cheap shit Vinciguerra had bought this time spilling out. Illya vacated the space before someone spilled something on his coat and he punched them in the throat.

At the thought he took in a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. He’d find Gaby and check in with her, see how much longer she wanted to stay here or if she had a ride back. Didn’t she say her cousin was coming?

He found her sitting on the stairs with Alexander Vinciguerra’s mouth on her neck. With a roll of his eyes in frustration that had Illya thinking his eyes would get stuck like that someday with the amount of rolling they did, he yanked the boy off of his best friend and dropped him to the side of the stairs. Vinciguerra spluttered in irritation and Gaby looked at him with vindication. Illya shrugged.

“When do you want to leave?” he asked, unbothered by the severe wave of Italian swearing behind him.

“We’ve been here an hour,” she complained, worrying at the hickey on her neck with her fingers. Illya brushed her hand away and shook his head. She pouted. “And anyways, my cousin is here already. I can leave with him.”

“I have not seen him,” Illya said with a frown.

“I have not introduced you,” Gaby pointed out. “Now,” she said, standing and making her way around Illya to Alexander. “Go away. My cousin has wandered somewhere on the second floor. They’re playing… party games, ich weiβ es nicht. Aber, geh einfach!” She shoved Illya away, apologizing to Alexander before waving Illya off. He huffed in annoyance but followed her directions, trudging up the stairs with a scowl on his face that sent several making-out couples running. Good, he thought. He mostly wanted to see this boy for Gaby’s sake and then leave. He had no desire to be here in the first place.

Illya found them by literally walking in on several couples having sex, one group of boys fishbowling in a bedroom, and then finally refusing to knock as he busted into the last room only to find several people sitting in a circle talking with a soda bottle in the middle of them. Right as he was noticed, two girls fell out of the closet everyone was sitting in front of, giggling with their lipstick smeared across their lips and cheeks, skirts askew, and hair in tangled nests. Everyone started cheering and Illya’s stomach dropped. This was bad. He needed to leave, he needed to –

“Look, another player to join the game! Make room for him,” someone said. Another person scooted over and still another person got up and shoved Illya in, slamming the door shut behind him. “You know how to play?” the random kid said and Illya shook his head. This was bad. His heart was hammering in his chest and he was sweating though to his coat in fear and apprehension. “We spin the bottle. Whoever the ends land on gets locked in the closet for seven minutes. Hence the name-”

“Seven Minutes in Heaven!” the room screamed in unison, most of the participants too drunk to care how loud they were being. The noise hurt Illya’s ears and he felt his stomach lurch. Maybe he should just leave; this really wasn’t his scene. But everyone had already sat down and closed the circle around him, and someone turned up the obnoxious music so no one would hear him trying to excuse himself, so he stayed seated, his large body scrunched up in the small space he was given. All he had to do was wait for the damn bottle to stop spinning and when the two unlucky people got up, he’d dash out as new space was made and everyone else’s attention was diverted.

It was a sound plan, he thought. It really was. That is, until the bottle stopped spinning and the lip of it was facing Illya. He closed his eyes and sighed in defeat. Of course it was.

The room erupted into drunken laughter and Illya looked up to see who his closet-mate would be, but the other teenager was already being propelled by a group into the closet and in second, another group was doing the same to him. Illya fisted his hands and kept them close to his body as not to hit anyone on impulse and break an unassuming nose. God, this was all types of terrible.

Illya braces himself for his landing among shoes and fallen clothes, colliding with another warm body. Definitely male, his mind supplied as his face was pressed up against a flat chest. Then again, it could be a particularly flat chested girl. Or maybe they were androgynous? Illya’s mind spun before he heard a soft, deep voice by his ear.

“You alright there, Peril?”

Definitely a boy, he decided.

“Do not call me that,” Illya snarled, pulling away and scrubbing at his neck where the other boy’s breath had been blowing across his skin. “What is the point of this? I see nothing.” It was true; Illya could only see a vague outline of the boy in the darkness. A coat brushed his head and Illya jumped, his back hitting the wall with a thud. Shit. The closet was far too small for his tastes. The last time he had been in something this small, he had been hiding and thought his next breath was going to be his last…

“Hey, Peril, you alright there? It’s just a game. I’m not going to do anything that you don’t want me to,” the annoying boy continued and Illya just needed a second of silence, for the boy to get away from him before Illya accidentally hurt him because the scent of his cologne was so comforting and it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. He was shaking. “Peril?”

“Not. Not-my my name,” Illya growled, trying to stop his shaking. Oh god it was so small in here, oh god they were going to come for him like they came for his father and not even Oleg could keep them away.

“I got that, but I don’t know you’re actual name and you’re shaking like a leaf. A giant, very large leaf, but a leaf nonetheless. The bigness and the Russian accent are the Peril part, not the leaf. Just to clarify.” A gentle hand went to his back and rubbed softly. It helped. The boy started taking deep breaths. Illya instinctively matched up his breathing to the other boy’s. “There we go, Peril. There we go. Gosh, didn’t think I’d ever be playing this stupid game again. But drunk high school seniors are full of stupid surprises, huh?” He was talking, Illya realized, talking to take his mind off of the panic. “It was obviously the worst idea to come here. But no one listens to me.”

“Me too,” Illya agreed, his breaths shuddering into something normal. The tightness in his chest is dissipating. Thank God.

“Time’s almost up, by the way,” the boy said and was that something suggestive in his voice?

“Hold horses, Cowboy,” Illya muttered, starting to pull away from the once-comforting hand.

“Hey, hey. I wasn’t suggesting anything like that,” Cowboy said and Illya rolled his eyes in the dark, doubting it completely. “Though I do wonder why you’re here at the party if you agreed that coming was a mistake.”

“Best friend dragged me,” Illya admitted as the loud and drunken teenagers started the countdown from ten outside the closet doors.

“Ah. I know that feeling,” Cowboy laughed and it sounded gorgeous all of a sudden, against the drunken yells and loud pop music, the breaking glasses and stupid giggles, this boy’s laugh was charming and honest.

The doors opened and the light hit him in the face. Illya squinted into it and took the proffered hand from his left, letting Cowboy yank him to his feet. He still couldn’t see the boy’s face, but he followed him out of the line of clothes and shoes into the hot bedroom where those same fools that dragged him in were hooting and hollering. Illya imagined how they looked: clothes rumpled from grasping at each other in fear and comfort, not the explicit sexual actions these people probably assumed.

“Details!” someone yelled. Illya barred his teeth at the room at large.

“Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell,” Cowboy responded, and before anyone could squeeze the details out of them, he dragged Illya to the door and down the stairs until they hit the kitchen. Illya let out a sigh of relief about to turn the boy in front of him around for a good look at the face that matched that beautiful voice when he heard a snicker behind him and felt his hand start to shake. Shit. Had he taken all of his medication yet today?

“Look at the couple of faggots. Don’t get why Alex lets them come to these,” a voice said from behind them. Illya let go of Cowboy’s hand and turned to face Lippi, Alexander Vinciguerra’s rich, spoiled cousin. He was high out of his mind, his eyes blood shot and glazed over. Behind him, two of his friends giggled to themselves uncontrollably. Illya saw red.

“Uh, Peril?” came a voice from behind him. “Maybe not the best course of action and oh, look at that, your fist is swinging anyway. _Shit_.” The last part was said as Lippi hit the ceramic tile of the kitchen floor, painting the delicate patterns with red.

“Puta!” one of his friends yelled and ran bodily into Illya, both boys yelling. Illya got a fist to the eye and then the other friend came and grabbed him by the wrist to yank him away. But he was too close to Illya’s father’s watch and the boy must have seen something in Illya’s face because he looked at the watch and yanked it from Illya’s wrist with a smile. Illya lost it. The boy on top of him flew into the counter and the one with his watch ran in fear, hand tightened around the strap as he disappeared around a corner. Illya made to run after him, but a hand to his forearm restrained him.

“Hey! The cops got called, we need to leave.” Illya made to go after Lippi’s friend. “Peril, let’s go!” God, this annoying boy was right. And yet… his father’s watch. God, how had he just let it go like that? Was he that worthless and incompetent? He didn’t even need Oleg to tell him that now. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ –

“Let’s go!” Cowboy yelled and Illya shook himself out of it, moved his grip to Cowboy’s wrist and dragged him in the direction of his car, past screaming, inebriated teens. He hoped Gaby would be okay; after all, she said her cousin had come with her, so she could just safely leave with him. He had his hands full with this boy who had blatantly lied to everyone in order to keep Illya’s freak out private _and_ had warned him about the cops. He stopped by his car, yelled for the boy to go around, and then unlocked the doors. Illya practically threw himself inside, slammed his door and started the car. They were at the end of the street just as sirens and police lights lit up the neighborhood. Beside him, his tag-along whooped with joy and congratulated him on his driving skills. Illya was having none of it. They just needed to safely get away. Ten minutes later, he pulled into a fast-food restaurant parking lot and let out a sigh of relief. No one had followed them and now, Illya could really sit down and catch his breath, look at his naked wrist and try not to let his heart wrench itself out of his chest.

“Well that was a wild ride.” Illya’s head snapped up in surprise. He had almost forgotten his passenger. He turned to snap something rude at the boy but his tongue tied itself into knots and his stomach followed suit with nerves. He had the prettiest face Illya had ever seen, with sweeping eyelashes framing bright blue eyes, dark hair curling into a cowlick and falling into his eyes. When he smiled at Illya, it accentuated his cheekbones and the sharp line of his stubbled jaw. Oh no, Illya thought. He’s hot. “Alright there, Peril? You might catch flies.” Illya realized his mouth was hanging open and heard his teeth clack against each other as he snapped his mouth shut.

“Shut up, Cowboy,” Illya growled, no heat behind it. The boy laughed and his eyes crinkled. “Thank you,” Illya said stiltedly. “For heads up.”  
“Well, I wasn’t about to get arrested either,” the boy said and Illya felt his chest constrict. So it had only been to save his own hide, huh? He shouldn’t be surprised. Americans. If it hadn’t been for the Russian government hating his family, Illya is sure Oleg would never have moved them here.

“Good to know that’s all it was,” Illya muttered and flinched when a hand appeared on his forearm.

“I also didn’t want someone as cute as you getting locked up. Though, it wouldn’t be so bad if I got locked up with you,” the boy said, batting those eyelashes. A serial flirter, great, Illya thought. He wondered how many people the boy had hit on that night. What number was Illya, thirty-seven?

“Can you get home from here? I need to go back and get my watch,” Illya said, moving on to what really mattered. He had to sneak back there and see if Lippi’s friend was still hanging around. Then he’d wring the boy’s neck and take his father’s watch back, putting it back on his wrist where it belonged.

“I’m sorry, what?” the boy said, wide eyes getting even wider.

“My watch. It was my father’s watch. He is dead. I want it back. Now,” Illya grunted, pointing to his bare wrist. “Little shit Italian boy took it.”

“Yes, I saw. But that place is crawling with cops and I’m pretty sure that slimy little shit got away with the rest of the Vinciguerra posse. Maybe we should forget about the watch for now. It’s just a watch.”

Illya grit his teeth and took in a deep breath. “My father’s watch,” Illya corrected.

“Regardless,” he started, but Illya cut him off.

“Out of my car, American. Now.” He leaned over Cowboy’s body and opened the door. “You can walk. I am wasting time with you.”

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly, as your people would say,” Illya responded trying to keep his temper in check.  “Goodbye, Cowboy.”

“This… I can’t believe this,” he said but he did get out of the car. Illya shut the door and ignored the look of hurt on the face of a boy he barely knew and shouldn’t care about. But the way he had been gentle with Illya when he’d been panicking, on the border of a full blown attack, how he had gotten Illya out of that room before anyone could pressure them into talking, how he had respected Illya’s space and body…

“No,” Illya muttered to himself, putting his car into gear and resisting looking into the rearview mirror to where the boy was standing in a rumpled button down and khakis. It started to rain. Illya grit his teeth. He would be strong. He would not look back. He would drive back to the party and see if he could find Lippi’s gang and his father’s watch. That was what was important. Not some obnoxious American boy he was leaving in the rain.

Fuck.

By the time Illya had turned around and went back to the parking lot, Cowboy was gone. And by the time he had doubled back to the Vinciguerra household, no one was there. He’d lost the only good two things he’d had in a while in one night. Perfect.

He was never going to a party again.

* * *

 

“I am never going to party with you. Ever again,” were the first words out of Illya’s mouth when he saw Gaby at school on Monday.

“You too?” she griped. “Come on.”

“Who else will not go? Is smart,” Illya said, sitting by her desk in their history class. Their teacher was late again, thank goodness.

“My cousin, Napoleon. He said he was hijacked into playing some stupid game, witnessed a fight and then got ditched when we all ran from the police,” she said with a shrug. “Sounds fun to me, but he was butt-hurt. I feel like something else happened but he won’t talk about it.”

“He is smart not to tell you. You would just laugh,” Illya said with a sigh. “It was horrible night. I was also playing stupid games against my want. I punched Lippi and got into fight with his puppies. One stole my father’s watch.”

Gaby gasped at that. “Oh, Illya…”

“I will get it back,” he snarled under his breath. “And then break the boy’s fingers.”

“That won’t help,” Gaby said even as she groaned a bit and put her head down. There were hickeys lacing her throat in a necklace and her eyes were bloodshot from her hangover. The weekend hadn’t helped her in the least. Illya grimaced. He didn’t envy her, not one bit. “Did you have any kind of fun?” she finally asked. Immediately, Cowboy popped into mind and before Illya could hide the spark in his eye at the thought, Gaby had latched on. “Oooh, you did. Who was it?”

“No one,” Illya grumbled. “Is no one. Stranger I will never see again. And _nothing_ happened,” he insisted.

“ _Sure_ ,” Gaby said slyly. “Nothing happened. You wouldn’t be so upset about it, if that was the case.”

“The case is that my father’s watch is gone,” Illya said with a huff. “That is what the case is.”

“You’ll get it back,” Gaby said with a pat to his arm. “I promise.”

“You promised your cousin would be pretty as well,” Illya reminded. “Look how that turned out. I didn't even meet him. And the party was _terrible_.”

“Oh hush.”

“No, I’m going to have to agree. That party was the worst. I’m sure Peril here would agree with me. Or has been, I think.” Illya froze at the sound of that voice coming from behind him. No. This wasn’t possible. It had just been a random boy he was supposed to never see again. That was why he had driven away, because they could never get to know each other anyway and his father’s watch was at stake. Right?

“Napoleon,” Gaby said. “You know Illya?” Illya turned around and there he was. Those big blue eyes and that hair, those cheekbones and that jaw. Shit. Illya was so fucked. And wait a minute, had Gaby just said that _this_ was Napoleon? Her _cousin_ Napoleon? Fuck.

“Oh, I do,” Napoleon said, straightening out the lapels of his blazer. He looked sharp and sleek, beautiful in a way that was dangerous. Illya felt his face heat at that beauty, at the help Napoleon had offered him the other night. “Long time no see, Peril. Looks like you got home in the rain alright.” His gaze flicked to Illya’s still-bare wrist. “No luck with the watch? Shame.” He didn’t sound like he meant it. An eyebrow went up and Napoleon looked none too pleased.

“Oh no,” Gaby said as it dawned on her and Illya cringed. “He’s the boy you played Seven Minutes In Heaven with? He’s the one who left you out in the rain?” She looked at Illya who was honestly trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Gaby smacked him in the arm. He looked at her in shock. “Illya! You left my cousin in a strange city alone in the middle of the night in the rain?” She sounded irked. And then she looked at the disgruntled Napoleon, who looked like he very much wanted to argue that he wasn’t a damsel in distress, and she burst out into laughter.

“Now hold on just a second,” Napoleon started, and Illya stood up with him to yell at Gaby some more, but just then, their teacher came in and started writing on the board without a care in the world. Napoleon and Illya shared a look of confusion as the man kept writing, regardless that two of his students looked hostile and were the only one’s standing.

“Gentlemen,” he said without looking behind him. “Is there a problem?” Before anyone could answer, he responded, “Because I don’t care. Now. Today we continue with the tensions between Britain, Russia, and the United States on page…”

Napoleon grumbled and fell in the seat to Illya’s other side, not making eye contact with him, a muscle jumping in his beautifully sculpted jaw. To Illya’s other side, Gaby sat and tried not to laugh too loudly. 

"I told you he was pretty," Gaby whispered and Illya felt his neck heat. Shit. Just how much did Napoleon tell her?

Illya took in a deep breath, let it out, and dropped into his seat between the two of them. God, he hoped history wouldn’t drag today.


	2. Sitting Out Dances On The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they start at opposing ends and end up making their own side. 
> 
> Or, Gaby knows when boys have the hots for each other and leaves them to their own devices. Quite literally. But when has shit ever just gone right? 
> 
> (Never, that's when.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~~~  
>  **Please remember that stuff in bold means they are Russian-ing.**  
>   
> 
> ~~The only things I know how to say in Russian are Yes (Da) and No (Nyet). Those are the only two you'll actually see phonetically in Russian, not in Cyrillic.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~IF ANYONE WANTS TO HELP THAT WOULD BE COOL.~~
> 
>  
> 
>  **EDIT:** SOMEONE HELPED ME HAHAHA!!! Svetlana, AKA , _Kane_. Bless. Hopefully Kane helped me out in the future with this story. What a lovely munchkin. SO! I put the original Russian in the actual dialogue quotes, with the english Italicized next to the phrases. 
> 
> Also, yes. The film they watch is supposed to be based off of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. I actually adored the film, so don't take the critiques to heart. 
> 
> Also! Mentions of self-harm and psychiatric facilities in this chapter near the end. And drowning. So. Please take care of yourselves friends. And remember everyone's experience with this stuff is different and that I am writing from my experience and no one else's, so it may be different than your experiences or those of people you know or are close to. Contact me for any reason!

 

 “This is stupid. I do not want to be around him,” Illya grumbled at lunch. It had been a week since what he had been calling The Incident, and Gaby had been adamant about integrating Napoleon into their little outcast group. They sat in a corner of the cafeteria, waiting for Napoleon to get out the bathroom and join them. Not that Illya thought they needed joining, but Gaby was of a different mind.

“He’s my cousin,” Gaby said for the millionth time as she dug into her burger.

“Foster cousin,” Illya corrected and he heard her giggle. “Is not funny.”

“It is. You’re so upset with him over nothing.”

“Nothing?” Illya yelped. “My father’s watch is not nothing.”

“He didn’t take it,” she reminded him.

“He stopped me from getting it back,” Illya insisted, moving his food around on his plate. School food, he decided, was the worst. Next time, he was going to make the effort to get up and make himself a bagged lunch before he headed out. A few minutes of lost sleep seemed worth it, in the end.

“I stopped you from getting arrested, Peril,” Napoleon said from behind Illya. He went around the head of their table and sat across from Gaby, ignoring Illya’s growl of annoyance. “You’re the one who left me out in the rain,” he continued, as though Illya hadn’t done anything.

“Do not call me that,” Illya said, looking away. His fingers twitched, but he reminded himself he needed to calm down.

“Fine. Illya, then,” Napoleon corrected with an eye-roll of his own. He unwrapped his sandwich, which immediately fell apart and started leaking some brown, chunky sauce, and pursed his mouth in disgust. “This is a travesty. What kind of school _is_ this?”

“An underfunded one,” Gaby retorted and Napoleon laughed. A wave of anxiety hit Illya, causing him to frown and look away from the two as they began conversing about class and home life. Gaby was already so comfortable around Napoleon and Napoleon obviously didn’t like him. What if it rubbed off on Gaby? What if she was looking for Illya’s replacement right now, because Illya couldn’t just use his words and smile like a regular person, like Napoleon was doing right now?

“Hello? Illya?” It was Napoleon calling him, which spiked up Illya’s irritation even more. “We just asked if you wanted to see a film after school.” He paused and sighed. “Well, Gaby asked. I was hoping you wouldn’t bother answering.” He smiled wide.

With a snarl of frustration Illya said, “I’m going.” Then he got up and trashed his half-eaten lunch, walking off to his next class. He had no time for Napoleon and his bold-faced ways.

Later, of course, he was forced to face the music. Napoleon was in his AP Calculus class, though Illya had no idea why the pretty American boy was there. He could barely make it through practice problems, never mind the actual book work they had assigned for homework. Napoleon sat down right next to him, squinting long and hard at the problems their teacher was writing on the board. As she continued to write, the smile slowly slid off his face and rearranged it to one of confusion.

Illya tried not to let his smugness show.

“Why did Gaby drop this class?” he heard Napoleon muttering to himself.

“Because she knows when she is incapable,” Illya answered gruffly, startling Napoleon. “Unlike some people.”

“I can do this just fine, thank you,” Napoleon boasted, but another look at the board had him straining against a groan of horror. “Well, I can survive.”

“Yes,” Illya said, looking at him from the corner of his eye. “I am sure you will try.” And with that he ignored Napoleon for the rest of the class. There was no point in helping the enemy, was there?

But by the end of it, even Illya had to feel a pang of sympathy, or at least embarrassment. Napoleon had the basics down, but trying to apply the formulas resulted in disaster. By the time class was over, he had only made it through three out of the twenty practice problems. It hurt to look at. Meanwhile, Illya was done with the classwork and homework. He sat and watched as people trickled out as the last bell of the day rang and Napoleon feverishly attempted to complete the last problem. Their teacher noticed them and made her way over. This would be interesting.

“Mr. Solo?” she said and Napoleon looked up, eyes slightly dazed.

“Yes?”

“How are those coming along?” she asked gently. Illya resisted the urge to laugh.

“…they’re not. Not really,” Napoleon admitted and Illya could see how much pride he had just had to squash aside to be able to say those words.

“I didn’t think it was,” she responded. Illya cringed. That had been a bit harsh. “If you want to stay in this class, you’re going to need to figure out a way to keep up.” But the words were not unkind and Napoleon had set his pretty jaw and nodded. Illya could respect that. He was getting ready to leave, having had his fill of watching Napoleon squirm when he felt it: someone’s eyes falling on him in interest. He slowly looked up and came face to face with their teacher.

_Oh no._

“Mr. Kuryakin!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Fuck, no, Illya thought. Please no. “My star student!” She looked back to Napoleon, who was stuck between smiling like the cat that caught the canary and cringing like he had just gotten the biggest burn of his life. “I have an idea. Mr. Kuryakin can tutor you, Napoleon! That way, you can keep up, and Illya can get some extra points toward his overall grade. How does that sound?” Illya opened his mouth to protest. “Not to mention, you can sign up at the school office as an official tutor and get paid,” she continued. Illya closed his mouth. She had him there.

He let out a deep sigh and looked at Napoleon. “Fine.”

“Really?” Napoleon said, sounding surprised at how surprised he sounded.

“For money,” Illya said, starting to walk out of the room. “Not you.” He heard their teacher laugh as he sped down the hall, Napoleon on his heels. God, didn’t this boy know when to quit?

“Illya,” Napoleon called, still following. Illya stopped and Napoleon slammed into his back. Illya spun around and crossed his arms, waiting. He didn’t have time for this. He had things to do at home before Oleg came back or else he would be going nowhere tonight. “Thank you.”

“Not doing it for you,” Illya repeated, because he wasn’t. If he was going to leave Oleg’s house at eighteen, then he needed money to support himself. He shuddered at the thought that he might not have enough to leave with, that he might have to stay with Oleg of all people. There was a hand on his arm before he knew it and Illya flinched back so hard, he slammed into the lockers at his back. “Don’t – don’t –”

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon said, both hands up. “I’m sorry you just…” Napoleon shook his head, forehead creased in concern. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Illya said gruffly, trying to compose himself. God, if Napoleon had stayed touching him and Illya had lost control, he could have hurt the boy. And no matter how annoyed he was by him, no one deserved to be on the other end of Illya’s fists when he lost it. He spared one last glance at Napoleon before dashing down the hall. He would file his tutoring paperwork and then head home and do his chores before Oleg got home. With that at the forefront of his mind, he continued walking and refused to look back.

* * *

When Napoleon showed up alone and before Gaby, Illya knew something was wrong. The second he saw the confused look on the other boy’s face, he whipped out his phone and texted Gaby an angry message consisting of several German swears and one question: _Wo bist du?_

 _Ich bin krank_ , was her response and Illya called bullshit. Napoleon finally caught up to him and nodded questioningly to the phone. With a grunt, Illya turned the screen to Napoleon before realizing it was in German. He opened his mouth to translate but Napoleon was already snorting and shaking his head.

“That’s the excuse she’s going to go with? Sick?” He rolled his eyes and hunched his shoulders against the cold. “She’s better at lying than that.”

“You know German?” Illya asked instead of addressing the problem at hand. He realized he liked that better.

“Yes?” Napoleon answered. “She’s my cousin, Illya.”

“Foster cousin.”

“She’s been fostered by my uncle since she was six,” Napoleon said on a sigh. He burrowed his chin under his scarf, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. Under the dying light of the sun, he looked ethereal. Illya wanted to touch him. He balled his hands into fists to resist the temptation. “I had to learn German so I could talk to her when we were kids.”

“She did not mention that.”

“That’s nice, Peril,” Napoleon said, dismissing him. Illya grunted and let his hands unfurl. He no longer desired to touch Napoleon and his rude mood. “So. Are we going to watch this film or not?”

Illya debated it. He could go home and do homework and then be stuck with Oleg. Or he could stay here and watch a stupid film and be stuck with Napoleon for company. Choices, choices. Neither seemed very appealing, but at the moment, he had to choose the lesser of two evils.

“We can always do calculus,” Illya said dryly. “Or we can watch film. Your choice, Cowboy.”

“Film it is,” Napoleon said on the tail end of Illya’s sentence and Illya had to chuckle at the fear in Napoleon’s eyes at the word calculus.

“Is math. Not murderer,” he said, walking into the cinema. Behind him, he heard Napoleon snort in derision.

“Same shit.”

* * *

The film was horrible, some remake of a spy show from the sixties that was more slapstick comedy than espionage. Illya found himself muttering every five minutes. Honestly, the accents were horrible, the actors were butchering the German, Russian, and Italian spoken, and there was some awkward and forced heterosexual romance that kept trying to get squeezed into the main plot. By the end, he was itching to leave and erase the terrible film from his mind. The second the credits started to roll, Illya was out of his seat like a shot, heading for the exit. Napoleon followed close on his heels. Standing outside, Illya let out a breath of irritation. It was definitely not worth the $5.50 he had paid, student discount or not.

“Well that was horribly disappointing,” Napoleon chirped beside him.

“For once, we agree,” Illya replied and rubbed his face. He went to check the time, but was faced with the jarring sight of his bare wrist, reminding him of exactly why he was so annoyed with Napoleon Solo. He turned to Napoleon and frowned. “Time?”

Napoleon checked his phone, grumbling about Illya being too lazy to look at his own, and said, “Almost 10:45. Why? Got a hot date?” The smile he flashed at Illya scrambled Illya’s brain and tied his stomach into knots with its beauty, but he swallowed hard and resisted. The annoyance wasn’t worth it, he told himself.

“We have saying in Russia,” Illya said blithely.

“And _what_ is that?” Napoleon asked.

“It goes, _‘shut up’_ ,” Illya snapped and Napoleon stared at him in surprise for a moment before bursting into laughter. His cheeks flushed red, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes and Illya hated the universe for making such a pest of a boy so gorgeous. It was unfair.

“You’ve got a sense of humor, Peril. I’ll give you that,” Napoleon laughed and just as Illya went to respond with something he was sure would be either witty or rude, his own phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and squinted at the screen.

 _Oleg_.

“Fuck,” Illya swore, answering the call with shaking hands. Last time he had left Oleg waiting… Well. He still had scars on his shoulders from the belt buckle Oleg had used. It had been the first and last time Illya had ever neglected to pick up the phone when his uncle called. “Да." Da.  _Yes._

"Где ты?"  _Where are you? **"**_ Возвращайся немедленно.Я привёз тебя сюда не для того, чтобы ты шлялся по улицам глубокой ночью, в середине недели."  _Where are you? Get back immediately. I did not take you in to let you wander the streets in the dead of night during the week.  "_ С кем ты? Этой девчонкой?” _Who are you with? That girl?_  Oleg snarled in angry Russian. _Who are you with?_  

“Нет,” _No,_ Illya started but was cut off by more yelling.

"Не заставляй меня идти искать тебя."  _Don’t make me come find you._ **"** Ты несёшь ответственность за своё дальнейшее образование." _You have a responsibility to further yourself through education._ "Развлечения по ночам этому не способствуют, так ведь, Илья?” _Dallying in the night is not fulfilling that. Is it, Illya?_ "Ты хочешь кончить как твой отец или хуже, как твоя мать?" _Do you want to turn out like your father? Or worse, your mother?_   “По крайнем мере, мой брат умер прежде чем успел застать большую часть своего позора, моей невестке пришлось прожить ещё один год, будучи использованной и опозоренной. Ты этого хочешь, Илья? Хочешь?" _At least my brother died before he could see most of his shame. But my sister in law had to live for another year being used and shamed. Do you want that, Illya? Do you?_

“Нет,” _No_ , Illya said stiffly, feeling his whole body shake and his fingers start to tap. “Я скоро буду дома." _I will be home shortly._

“Позаботься, чтобы это было именно так."  _See to it,_  Oleg snapped and hung up. Illya stood there, his ears ringing, his breath coming in short staccato gasps. He felt his stomach twist, less pleasant than the twisting of seconds ago when Napoleon smiled. He struggled to regulate his breathing, doing his three-count breathing exercise three times to steady himself into something tolerable for other people. He needed to go home, somehow avoid Oleg and the dressing down he was in for, and then take his medication before collapsing into bed. He wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear. He couldn’t even be a normal teenager in Oleg’s eyes.

“Это было не слишком дружелюбно."  _That didn’t sound too friendly,_  Napoleon said softly behind him and Illya’s focus went to shit. Napoleon spoke Russian? Which meant that he understood Russian, which meant…

“You… understood that all?” Illya said, his words barely above a whisper, mortification creeping up the back of his neck. He couldn’t turn around and face Napoleon, not after he had _heard_.

“Yes,” Napoleon said, his voice careful. As though Illya was an injured animal, ready to attack. Well, Illya thought, he wasn’t completely wrong. But fuck it if Illya was going to turn around and address the problem.

“I need to leave,” Illya said in a rush of breath, his cheeks hot with embarrassment, his vision blurring with tears he refused to cry. Oh god, he thought as the reality hit him. Now Napoleon knew, knew exactly how he was treated by Oleg, knew the shame Illya carried with him, knew how _weak_ he was. Illya couldn’t face him now. Maybe not ever.

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Napoleon said, still sounding as though he was choosing his words. “Are you alright to drive, Peril?”

“Don’t call me that,” Illya snarled and ran to his car without turning around. He didn’t know what he would see, but he couldn’t stand to look, regardless of the expression on Napoleon’s face. He just needed to get out.

* * *

“You left him again?” Gaby griped the next day.

“If you had not abandoned us, this would not have happened. He would have had someone,” Illya argued. He was barely paying attention to Gaby at the moment, too busy surveying the hallways for any sign of Napoleon so he could scram before the other boy got to close to talk to. The last thing Illya wanted was a confrontation. Or worse: what if Napoleon actually cared for some unknown reason? Would he use the information he had on Illya against Illya?

“Earth to Illya?” Gaby called and Illya waved her off. The next thing he knew, her tiny hands were fisted in his coat, dragging him down to her eye level. It was a long way down and he ended up half-hunched and looking her in the eye. “What is your problem?”

“Cowboy speaks Russian,” Illya said quickly, trying to get away and back to surveying. “He heard Oleg.”

“Fuck,” Gaby said, letting him go. She knew exactly what that meant. “I didn’t know he spoke Russian.”

“You have also known him for years, yes?” Illya said.

“We’re cousins,” she said. “Of course.”  
“I did not… expect that,” Illya said, looking away from her. So, she had known Napoleon for a while now, had she? Had Illya already been replaced? Was she secretly sick of him? He looked down at her tiny face, so full of righteous anger in his defense, and he immediately felt guilty for his thoughts. He knew Gaby would never replace him, that she was a true friend. How could he be so stupid and worthless as to think otherwise?

He shook his head. This was why he was on medication, he thought to himself.

“Why are you distracted?” she asked.

“I don’t want to see him,” Illya hissed.

“Don’t want to see who?” Illya cringed and turned around to find Napoleon standing there, his bag slung across his back. He was in a sleek pair of jeans, a button down, and a blazer, his shoes impeccably shiny, his hair obnoxiously perfect. Illya was simultaneously turned on and irritated. Napoleon did not deserve to look so delectable.

“You,” Illya responded grimly and Napoleon made a show of slapping his hands over his heart.

“You wound me, Peril,” he cried out, swooning into the lockers before winking at Illya. “Why ever would you want to avoid little old me?” Illya attempted to bore a hole through his skull with his gaze. It didn’t work, but Napoleon seemed to connect the dots. His smile withered away into a frown and he looked legitimately concerned. “Oh. You mean about last night?”

“And that is my cue to leave,” Gaby exclaimed just as the bell rand and students began rushing off to class. She stood on her tip-toes to press a kiss to Illya’s cheek, Illya not even reacting, his gaze still stuck on Napoleon. She did the same to Napoleon, his face easier to reach as he was closer to the ground, and then Gaby ran off to class.

Napoleon leaned up against the lockers, this time with his arms crossed and his face creased in worry. He waited until the hall was empty and then he let out a deep breath. Illya held up a hand to stop whatever was going to pour out of his mouth. If it was something hurtful, he didn’t need to hear it. If it was some form of pity, he didn’t _want_ to hear it. Seeing as there wasn’t much of a chance of another reaction, Illya didn’t put much stock into why he didn’t want to hear anything else, he just knew that he didn’t.

“Save it, Cowboy. We have class,” Illya said, then turned on his heel to leave. There was a tugging at his sleeve and he stopped, looked down at Napoleon’s pale hand clutching at his coat, and then turned around to face him with a sigh of defeat.

“Are you alright?” Napoleon asked, surprising Illya into silence.

“What?” Alright, maybe not complete silence.

“Last night sounded rough. You aren’t in trouble because you stayed out with me, are you?” Napoleon asked. “Because I can explain to your uncle about-”

“Oleg hears no one but himself,” Illya snapped, wrenching his arm from Napoleon’s grasp. Fresh hurt and surprise shined in Napoleon’s eyes and Illya was surprised at the stab of emotional pain he himself felt at the look. Oh god. He wasn’t getting attached to the annoying menace, was he? “Why do you care?”

“You just seemed upset is all,” Napoleon said, a mask slipping over his face. Great. He ruffled his hair and shoved past Illya. “Never mind, then.”

And as he walked away, Illya couldn’t help but feel he had just ruined something.

* * *

The guilt persisted throughout the week until Illya couldn’t stand it anymore. Between Oleg tightening his leash by not allowing him to go out and this tension with Napoleon, it was driving Illya crazy. He had enough to worry about.

The school had run his paperwork and he was officially getting paid for tutoring Napoleon, so he shot the other boy a text telling him to meet up in the library that Friday to start working. All he received was a one word text in agreement and at the end of the day, he met up with Napoleon at the library as planned. Though they had class together, neither boy had spoken to each other since earlier that week. They awkwardly sat across from each other at an abandoned table behind the backmost stacks of books and then proceeded to avoid each other’s gaze until Illya sighed and rubbed his temple.

“Извини." _I’m sorry,_ he said, switching to Russian. “За то... как я себя вёл."  _For… being the way I am._ Napoleon’s eyes flicked up to his face and the boy was frowning again. God, it was starting to get upsetting for Illya to see him like that. He really needed to stop. He said as much. “Перестань так много хмуриться. Это моя прерогатива."  **S** _top frowning so much. That is for me to do_ **.**

“Я не хмурюсь.”  _I’m not frowning,_ Napoleon snapped with a frown. He seemed to notice and relaxed his face back into a neutral expression. Then he looked back at his work. “К тому же тебе не стоит так о себе говорить."  _You shouldn’t talk about yourself that way, by the way_ **.**

“Do not tell me what to do,” Illya said, switching back to English. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Napoleon conceded. “Apology accepted. Though unnecessary.” He shrugged and started working on a problem. They worked silently for an hour before Napoleon gave up. But, Illya admitted, he was making headway. He was smart; Illya had to give him credit for that. “You know,” Napoleon said. He stopped, mulling his words over. Then he looked up at Illya with a small smile. It sparked something in Illya’s chest that he didn’t have a name for. Illya immediately resented it. “Иногда мы можем говорить по-русски, если хочешь **.** ” _We can speak Russian sometimes. If you want to,_  Napoleon finished and the resentment sputtered out like a flame doused with water. Was Napoleon doing… something nice? For him? For no reason other than to be nice? It was a foreign concept and Illya struggled with it for a moment, wondering if he deserved that, especially from someone so pulled together and normal and beautiful like Napoleon. “Or not,” Napoleon muttered, starting to pack his supplies, a sour look on his face.

“Нет.” _No,_ Illya said, his voice far too loud and quite worried. His hand shot out over Napoleon’s to stop it where it was grabbing for a pencil. His large palm dwarfed the other boy’s. Slowly, they both looked up and locked eyes, hands not moving. “Мне понравится. Я думаю."  _I would like that. I think,_ Illya let Napoleon’s hand go, his fingers tingling where they had touched the other boy’s hand. He cleared his throat and looked away. The next time Illya looked up, though, Napoleon was smiling so wide, Illya was legitimately concerned his face might split in half. “You are scaring me, Cowboy. Enough,” Illya said gruffly, gathering his supplies and shoving them unceremoniously into his rucksack. He felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment at being looked at like that, like he mattered, like he made Napoleon… _happy_.

What an odd thought.

* * *

It got… better.

Alright, not entirely better. Illya still felt awkward around Napoleon, but the other boy smiled easily and gave out his affection with no strings attached, so eventually Illya grudgingly realized that he felt less awkward around Napoleon than he had first thought. Gaby had seemed to pick up on Illya’s fear of her leaving him, so she made sure to include Illya in most everything she and Napoleon did, much to Illya’s embarrassment. He was not a child and did not need to constantly be involved, but he did like it and spared her a rare hug whenever he was feeling tactile.

They were at the mall today, Oleg reminding Illya that he had a strict curfew to meet if he wanted to have any sort of freedom in the future. For now, Illya decided not to think about it, about the words Oleg had used to describe him. He grit his teeth and tried to smile at whatever joke Gaby was telling, but it didn’t work.

“Loosen up, Peril,” Napoleon said, bumping shoulders with him. Illya grimaced and the sound seemed to fuel Napoleon’s glee. Fancy that. “C’mon, let’s hit that shop over there.” He gestured toward some mainstream shopping store that had Gaby in a fit of excitement as she ran in ahead of them.

“That is not good idea,” Illya muttered, walking in after her and immediately looking at the price of a t-shirt. He winced. “Is robbery,” he said, dropping the shirt back onto the rack. “We must go,” he started. “Before Gaby-”

“Oh god, isn’t this beautiful?” Gaby squealed just as Illya sighed. Of course she had found something. The two boys walked over to her where she was pawing at a necklace, hanging on a display stand. The chain was gold and hanging on it was a pendant of a tiny, golden bird. Illya knew exactly why she wanted it.

“Looks like German eagle,” he said and Gaby nodded her head enthusiastically. Then, of course, they both noticed the price. Gaby gasped in affronted shock and dropped the necklace as though it had burned her.

“Waverly does not make the kind of money that would allow me a weekly allowance of _that_ caliber,” she said, miffed and personally insulted that something so beautiful would be so expensive. Napoleon peeked around her at the price and his eyes widened.

“Ah, capitalism,” he said with a look and eyebrow wiggle at Illya. Illya tried not to be charmed.

“Is communist joke?” he responded. Napoleon winked but didn’t answer him. So much for that. “We go, yes?” Illya said to Gaby. “Get lunch, maybe.”

“Always thinking about your stomach,” Gaby joked, but he could tell she was disappointed about the necklace. Maybe he could put aside some of his savings to get her something similar for her birthday. He could always get another job to make up for the lack in his funds, though it might put him back on moving out. But Gaby was his best friend and she was worth it.

“We go.”

They walked out and only noticed a few seconds later that Napoleon was chatting up the woman at the counter. She threw her head back and laughed, Napoleon’s hand in hers as he smiled charmingly at her. Illya felt his fist clench, but he looked away. What right did he have to be upset that beautiful, annoying Napoleon was getting handsy with the store-clerk?

“It’s okay, you know,” Gaby said softly. He looked to her and shrugged.

“I know,” he answered, unashamed of his sexuality. “But Oleg,” he conceded, leaving it at that. He couldn’t ever show that part of himself to his uncle. Though they didn’t live in Russia any longer, it didn’t stop Oleg from holding strict, conservative Russian ideals.

“I know,” Gaby echoed. She bumped shoulders with him, then turned and yelled back into the store, “Napoleon, let’s go! We’re hungry!” With a quick wink and a smile, Napoleon left the woman and made his way out of the store, meeting them where they were standing in the middle of the walkway.

“Food court?” he offered, not even embarrassed that he had been holding them up.

“Well, if the prince insists,” Gaby teased and led the way. It was only when they sat down at a corner table that Napoleon nudge her and revealed the eagle necklace she had been ogling. Gaby squealed with joy and allowed Napoleon to fasten it around her neck. She stroked the pendent reverently and Illya thought he might see tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”

“How did…?” Illya wondered. That was far too expensive for them, no matter what Napoleon’s parents did for a living. Unless he was secretly a rich boy, it must have hurt his wallet.

“I have, shall we say, sticky fingers,” Napoleon said with a shrug, digging into his Chinese food. Both Illya and Gaby made eye contact and froze. Then, Gaby burst out into laughter.  
“You stole it?” she asked in disbelief. Illya was still staring at the boy, trying to place his feelings. He felt mildly aroused and very intrigued.

“Of course,” Napoleon said, as though he had been personally offended. “No offense Gaby, I love you and all, but I’d never drop that much money on _anything_.” He went back to his food. “Besides, it’s a habit.”

“You steal things?” Illya said. “As… a habit? Or hobby?”

“Both, probably,” Napoleon said, unbothered. Shit, but that confidence was really attractive. “If you see anything you like, Peril, just let me know.” With that, Napoleon winked and Illya felt his face flush at the double entendre.

“Not likely,” Illya muttered and began to eat his food.

 “Однажды тебя поймают и я посмеюсь." _You will get caught one day and I will laugh,_  Illya said, transitioning into Russian.

“Думаю, тогда ты должен будешь удостовериться, что не находишься в камере прямо рядом со мной."  _I guess you’ll just have to make sure you aren’t in a cell right beside me then_ , Napoleon answered with a shit-eating grin. In parallel to what Napoleon had done to him earlier, Illya kicked his shin hard under the table and grinned when Napoleon winced.

“Hey, no fair. I don’t understand Russian and friends don’t have secrets,” Gaby said with a pout to the both of them. Napoleon smiled.

“But Illya and I don’t _have_ secrets,” he responded. Gaby gaped and looked to Illya for assistance, but it was just too good not to play into Napoleon’s little joke, so Illya simply shrugged as though there was nothing wrong with the statement. Gaby proceeded to throw her fortune cookies at the both of them, swearing in German, but she was also laughing so Illya knew they had caused no harm.

* * *

It was after they had eaten that Illya realized Napoleon’s face was slowly devolving into a devious grin. He took a few steps away from the other boy, bumping into Gaby in his haste to get away. Gaby frowned at him then followed his gaze of horror to where Napoleon was smiling wide, hands in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels. Instead of looking just as horrified, Gaby smiled back. Illya was friends with a pair of crazies.

He stopped at that. Friends? He was starting to consider Napoleon a friend? Interesting.

“What do you have in mind?” Gaby said, stepping around Illya as he was lost in his own thoughts.

“I was thinking, it’s no fair that only you get to have fun while Peril and I stand around waiting,” Napoleon responded. He walked over to Illya and wiggled his eyebrows, nodding his head toward another expensive looking store. “What do you say, Peril? Me and you, we try on some fancy digs for the hell of it.” Gaby had already started clapping her hands in delight. “I’m not saying it’s a contest to see who has the best sense of style, but…” Napoleon shrugged now.

“Oh, my money is on Illya,” Gaby said. “If that’s the game you’re going to play. He taught me everything I know.”

Illya finally snapped out of his reverie. “You say this only now. But whenever _I_ bring it up…” He trailed off, shaking his head with a smile on his face. But the thought of getting to see Napoleon all dressed up with nowhere to go was too tempting for Illya to say no to. He shrugged. “I will play.”

“Perfect,” Napoleon crowed. Then he shot Gaby a dirty look. “And for your information, you’re supposed to bet on family.”

“Not when that family has shit taste,” Gaby replied.

“How do I have shit taste? Do you see how I dress on a daily basis?” He gestured to himself then, in tight jeans, a chic button down that made his eyes pop, and a blazer that matched his shoes.

“For women,” Gaby conceded. She turned to Illya. “Once, he was going to put me in a Patou.”

Napoleon scowled. “What’s wrong with a Patou?”

“Nothing,” Illya said. Then he smiled wide. “If you’re fat.” Gaby burst into giggles and Napoleon stood shocked, mouth open like a fish out of water. Illya thought it was a good look on him. Stretched like that, it wasn’t hard to picture what Napoleon’s lips would look like wrapped around Illya’s –

“Let’s just go before I get my feelings hurt,” Napoleon said with a put-upon sigh. Gaby ran up to him and kissed his cheek, muttering false apologies. With a last sigh to himself, Illya jogged up to them and they all walked in, taking in the smell of clean linen, real leather, and crisp cotton. Gaby start to scratch at her arms. “Are you alright?” Napoleon asked, concern coloring his voice. It was sweet, Illya thought to himself, how close and familial Napoleon and Gaby were around each other. He wished he had that.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Gaby said with a smirk. “It’s just, I’m allergic to expensive things.”

“I don’t see you breaking out into hives around your neck where that necklace is,” Napoleon pointed out, making his way to the men’s suits section. Illya followed with a snicker.

“That’s because you stole it,” Gaby said with a shrug. She stood on her tip toes, surveying the store until she found the dresses. “I’ll be over there, trying not to cringe whenever I see a price. Meet back here in ten and the battle begins?” Both boys nodded and she scampered off after their confirmation.

With that, it was just Napoleon and Illya, skimming racks of suits and dress shirts for their sizes. Illya was trying his best not to be hyperaware of where Napoleon was at all times, but he failed miserably. The other boy was a constant presence at his side of back and Illya was falling behind in their competition because he was distracted by it. Napoleon walked over, seemingly done with his choices in clothing, and tapped Illya on the shoulder. Illya resisted jumping and simply turned, only to find that Napoleon had both shirts that Illya was contemplating, but in his own size. Maybe their tastes were more similar than they thought.

“I already called dibs on those, Peril,” Napoleon laughed. “Here.” He moved around the rack and grabbed a few shirts, handing them to Illya. “These will make your eyes pop.”

“Maybe I do not want eyes to pop,” Illya said, just to be difficult. He felt his cheeks heat as Napoleon gave him a once over. Now Illya was regretting not giving the other boy at least a kiss in that stupid closet during Seven Minutes In fucking Heaven. It would have _been_ heaven, Illya thought, if they got at least that.

“It would be a shame not to want your eyes to pop,” Napoleon said, hooking his arm through Illya’s and dragging him to the fitting rooms. “They’re beautiful.”

“I – what?” Illya said, caught off guard. He hadn’t thought Napoleon would actually say something. Looking, yes. He was used to people looking. He was handsome, he knew that. But once people spent a little time around Illya, or even heard him speak, all interest staying firmly in the Looking territory.

“People usually say thank you when someone compliments them, Illya,” Napoleon said dryly. He winked then and waved to Gaby where she was coming over with her arms full of overpriced fabric in the shape of dresses. He let go of Illya and made his way into one of the fitting room stalls. Illya stayed staring, watching him go.

“Thank you,” he said to himself, dazed and a bit confused.

“You’re welcome?” Gaby responded in her own bout of confusion. “Though I don’t know what I did. Are you alright?” she asked, noticing him staring at the closed door of Napoleon’s stall.

“He said my eyes are beautiful,” Illya said, hating the confusion tinging his voice. What was Napoleon playing at? A roll in the hay before running off to the next girl that smiled at him?

“Well, they are,” Gaby said with a shrug. “You know he likes boys, too, right?” Gaby whispered before running off to her own stall to change in, leaving Illya reeling.

He had assumed of course. There had been the subtle hints, the innuendos, the looks, and the touches. And yet, Napoleon had that playboy edge, that player flirting style. Illya was in no mood for a relationship that he could actually handle with mutual affection, never mind one that was sporadic and had the basis of a friends with benefits arrangement.

Illya sighed. He was reading too much into this. Gaby liked to start things and Illya usually had to end them. For once, he wouldn’t play into her clutches.

With that thought, he locked himself inside one of the changing stalls and slipped into the suit he had picked out. It was black and sleek, the jacket hugging close to his body. Oleg had made sure he had stayed active as a child and had grown with a physical training regime to stay in shape and healthy. The muscle that the suit jacket fit snug around was a testament to that and he rolled his eyes as he struggled to get comfortable in it before smoothing out the dress shirt. He mostly told people he jogged to get them off his case about why he was such a hulking, muscular giant at the age of seventeen. It wouldn’t do to tell them his uncle and guardian was a bit obsessed with turning him into a tiny, Russian soldier regardless of the fact that they no longer lived in the country. It usually freaked people out the few times he had tried to joke about it.

Then again, Illya was no good at joking. He shook off thoughts of his uncle before they upset him. No need to ruin a good day.

With a final look at himself in the mirror, and the grudging acknowledgement that the dress shirt he had on really _did_ made his eyes pop, Illy stepped outside the changing room, adjusting and readjusting himself, still not quite comfortable. Gaby was in an orange and white dress, looking like the living, adorable version of an Orange Creamsicle. But she had a little bubble shaped hat on with round sunglasses and white earrings to balance the outfit, a day clutch in one hand, the other combing through her hair. It worked on her. Napoleon, on the other hand, had a navy blue suit on, a different shade of blue underneath for his dress shirt. Both blues complimented each other well and they complimented his eye color even better. His smile widened and his eyes shined as he complimented Gaby, the girl twirling in an attempt to make her dress flow out around her. The two of them convulsed with giggles, not realizing Illya was there until Napoleon caught sight of Illya’s reflection in the mirror. He immediately stopped laughing. Illya’s stomach dropped in nerves. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care what Napoleon thought. It was a stupid game. But he had a feeling it had _nothing_ to do with the game.

“You know, I think with a few adjustments, Peril just might win,” Napoleon said, clearing his throat after a moment.

“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” Gaby commented. “If _you’re_ the one adjusting him to look good and it works, then _you_ win for Fashion Sense.”  
“Fine. I win for Fashion Sense. But he wins for Beauty,” Napoleon countered, Illya glad the other boy’s attention was on his cousin and not on Illya’s reddening face.

“Oh? Then what do I get? Honorable Mention?” Gaby griped.

“Well, I was going to say Ms. Congeniality…” Napoleon teased, sending his cousin into a tizzy as she yapped at him that she was the cutest one out of the three of them and that she was just letting the mere mortals win. Napoleon left her mid-speech and walked over to Illya, who was still trying to calm his blushing and was tugging at the suit jacket, still too snug for his tastes. “You alright over there? Awfully quiet.”

“Is too tight,” Illya admitted, finally looking Napoleon in the face. This close, he could see the lighter blue streaks in Napoleon’s eyes. Fuck, but they were gorgeous.

“I think it’d look better without the jacket, to be honest,” Napoleon suggest, unbuttoning Illya’s jacket. Illya’s stomach jumped at the proximity of Napoleon’s hands, his skin breaking out into goosebumps at the feeling of the other boy’s fingers gripping the jacket fabric and pulling, effectively undressing him. “There we go,” Napoleon said, dropping the expensive jacket onto the carpeted floor of the dressing room. Illya rolled his eyes at that, then nearly jumped ten feet in the air at the feeling of chilly fingers at his throat. Napoleon’s hands went up in surrender. “Sorry. Just trying to get at the first button,” he said and Illya allowed him close again to finish. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bumping against Napoleon’s fingers. The closeness was twisting up Illya’s insides and from where he was standing, it looked like Napoleon was as calm and unruffled as ever. “How about it?” Napoleon called to Gaby, his eyes staying focused on Illya’s face.

“Oh, I’m liking the casual rich boy look,” she said. But then there was a pause and Illya heard her humming. He wished Napoleon’s face was less captivating because then he would have been able to tear his gaze away from it and look at Gaby’s expression to see what she was thinking, but alas, Napoleon had him stuck fast. “Something’s missing, though,” she finally said. “I’m going to change out of this. Napoleon, figure it out.” She smiled wickedly. “If you can, that is.”

“Challenge accepted!” Napoleon yelled as Gaby disappeared back into her changing room. Hmm.”

“Don’t be getting ideas,” Illya said out of instinct. Napoleon and Gaby had very similar Plotting Faces. He had learned not to trust Gaby’s; he had a feeling the same should go for Napoleon’s.

“Ah!” Napoleon exclaimed, snapping. His eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation, causing Illya to take a step back in weariness. “Sleeves!”

“What about them?” Illya asked, looking down at the perfectly cuffed sleeves, the plain cufflinks at the wrists glinting dully in the lowlight.

“Here, let me,” Napoleon said. He was quick, which was probably why he was so good at thievery, and the next thing Illya knew, Napoleon had removed the cufflink of one sleeve and started to roll up his sleeves to Illya’s inner elbow. Illya rolled his eyes. Of course that was what Napoleon thought. But it was fall and this style was out of season… Illya looked at Napoleon, realizing he was quieter than usual. The boy had a frown on his face and he hadn’t let go of Illya’s arm, fingers tightening marginally around Illya’s flesh. Illya frowned himself and looked down in confusion. And then, he yanked his arm free of Napoleon’s grasp and snarled. “Illya,” Napoleon started, looking at him startled.

“That is none of your business,” Illya snapped, heart in his throat, shame and the feeling of being judged washing over him. He had had to deal with Oleg and doctors and people at school and _Gaby_ giving him that look – he didn’t need it from _Napoleon_ years later on top of everything else. And what right did the other boy have to judge him, anyway? Just minutes ago he had called Illya beautiful. Was he no longer beautiful now that Napoleon realized just how deep Illya’s hardships went?

“Illya, I didn’t even say-”

“Your face,” Illya said, horrified to find his voice shaking.

He had completely forgotten about them and the reactions people had, being so used to seeing them every single day and swallowing past all of the emotions they dragged up. There were a few faded horizontal scars on both of his arms from the wrists to his inner elbows, but the thick, gnarled vertical ones with faded lines from the stitches were what Illya had learned to be self-conscious about. He had been sixteen and lonely, neglected by his uncle, and confused about his body and his sense of self, about why he thought the thoughts he did, thoughts that scared him, thoughts that made him want to do horrible things to himself, thoughts that made him shake and scream and cry, losing control in the worst way possible. Afterward, after the weeks spent in the hospital’s psych ward, after going back to school and getting put on medication with the choice of seeing a permanent therapist left up to him – after, he had been so afraid of hurting himself, especially when the attacks started, that he had learned to react outwardly instead of inwardly, hitting walls and people instead of tearing up his own flesh with blades or anything sharp enough that he could get his hands on. Eventually, he surmised that he was doing what he could for himself at the only pace he could handle. Anyone who commented otherwise, well, it reflected on the type of person _they_ were more than it reflected on the type of person he was.

And if Napoleon was going to stand there and _gawk at him_ , like Illya was some sort of _freak_ in a travelling show instead of a teenager struggling through life just like the next guy, then Napoleon could fuck off for all Illya cared. Because Illya was trying to move the fuck on and Napoleon’s wasn’t helping.

He didn’t say anything else as Napoleon just stood there, not saying anything, unable to stop staring, it seemed. Illya yanked his sleeve down and rushed back into the changing room stall, slamming the door behind him. He tore off the dress shirt and suit pants, shoving his legs back into his pants and his arms back into his shirt. He stuffed his feet into his boots and rushed out of the stall, pushing past Napoleon without looking at him, without listening to whatever he was saying, Gaby finally coming out to see what the ruckus was about. He didn’t care, he told himself as he made his way to the car park and found his car. He didn’t care what Napoleon thought, he didn’t care that he had thought Napoleon was different and beautiful and liked boys. He didn’t care, not one bit.

* * *

He cared.

* * *

Illya had left and Napoleon watched him go, frowning, trying to piece together what had just happened. The second Illya was out of earshot, he turned to Gaby and explained, ready for some back story or something on the stoic but beautiful and troubled Russian boy. The look on her face told him she was expecting this.

“I’m not telling you anything,” she said, looking away. “Illya’s stories are his own, and _only_ his own, to tell.” Napoleon opened his mouth and she cut him off. “When he is _ready_.”

They left it at that.

* * *

Gaby had texted and called him later on and Illya had stiltedly discussed it with her. But he didn’t want to see Napoleon, that much he was certain about. He told her as much.

“I think he wants to apologize,” Gaby said, her voice low and soothing as Illya laid in bed.

“I do not care.”

“Illya. He reacted. He didn’t even say anything,” Gaby insisted.

“He did not need to. His face,” Illya said, then stopped as he felt his eyes prick with tears. “Is different with him, for some reason,” Illya said, voice rough. “I do not think… I expected it.”

“I know,” Gaby said. She sighed. “I still think you should talk to him about it. Please. He’s upset too.”

“I did not do anything to him,” Illya insisted.

“You ditched us in the mall, which you are starting to have a habit of doing, and didn’t give him a chance to explain his reaction,” Gaby said. “And now you won’t talk to him.” It was true. Illya had a few missed calls and a few more unread texts. The last one he had seen had told him to take his time and that Napoleon understood he was upset, but he did want to speak with him and clear the air. Illya scoffed. One did not simply clear the air after something like that.

“Yes they can,” Gaby responded as he spoke. “A+ use of the Lord of the Rings meme, by the way.”

“Danke schön,” Illya replied glumly.

“You’ll have to see him in school,” she reminded him.

“And? We do not have to speak.”

“Illya.”

“I am not ready.” He left it at that and heard her sigh as she realized. It was good she knew him so well.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Gaby said. “I have a lot of keeping the peace to look forward to, don’t I?” She hummed to herself. “Alright then. Ich liebe dich, Liebling,” she muttered, voice getting thick with sleepiness. “Bis morgen.”

“Bis morgen,” he muttered, hanging up. Maybe she was right and he had overreacted. But he wasn’t completely in the wrong, he was certain of that. He would have to suck it up, it seemed, because he _did_ have to see Napoleon tomorrow and for the rest of the week.

Great.

* * *

Illya managed to say not one word to Napoleon the entire week. He kept it civil when they were around each other, but Illya made sure the other boy knew that he was, effectively, dead to him. Gaby accused him on multiple occasions of being dramatic, but Illya had shrugged it off and denied it. And so what if he was? He felt as though he deserved to be. Napoleon, to his credit, seemed to get the picture. He backed off and tried to give Illya the space he wanted, though Gaby told Illya plenty of times that Napoleon was waiting for Illya to allow him to apologize.

“Not going to happen,” Illya insisted, though he was starting to realize he missed Napoleon’s presence. Things had been going well. He had been starting to get used to Napoleon being around, had started contemplating them hanging out together without Gaby and how that would manifest, had considered kissing the other boy. But now…

Well, it had been Napoleon’s own fault. Not that Illya had been very forthcoming with things like boundaries and triggers, but it was also Napoleon’s fault. Or at least Illya thought so.

By the time the weekend was rolling around, Illya was finding it harder and harder to glare at Napoleon and ignore him. If Gaby sensed it, she didn’t let Illya know, and for that he was grateful. He didn’t need his best friend muttering ‘I told you so’ at him every time his gaze wandered to where Napoleon was inevitably making eyes at someone or smiling too much at someone else. Illya rubbed his temples where he was waiting for Gaby to get out of her last class and tried to avoid looking at Napoleon where he was standing across the hall, talking to another boy from their calculus class. He could practically feel them flirting from where he was and he just wanted to go home. For once, he didn’t care that he had to deal with Oleg. His medication had been giving him weird side effects, including the impressive headache he had going and the awkward bout of nausea, and he just wanted to lay down. He might even ask Gaby to drive them home today, regardless of his slight fear of her insane driving tactics.

“You alright?” she asked, startling him.

“Headache. It is fine. Good day?” he asked her, consciously making the decision to stare at Gaby’s face intently and not at Napoleon across the hall. He doubted he was fooling Gaby, but that wasn’t the point.

“Very good day,” she said, the smile on her face turning sly.

“No,” he said, stopping her before she could even ask whatever it was she was going to ask.

“You don’t know what I was going to say!” she protested, trying not to laugh. He knew she was secretly pleased that he was already wary around her. She probably considered it an accomplishment that she was simultaneously terrifying and adorable.

“Something I do not want to do,” he answered, herding her away from where Napoleon was.

“Alex is throwing a party,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. Illya groaned in frustration.

“Definitely no,” he said, adamant. “I am not going.”

“But it’s at a lake!” she exclaimed. “A real lake! With boats. His family has boats.”

“And he is still dating Victoria,” Illya said. “A real girl. With hate for you. She hates you and _me_ , because I am around you.”

“Lippi will be there,” she said and he stopped walking. “And I’m sure that means his friend will be there. With your watch. Apparently, he’s taken to wearing it.” She sounded irritated now. “I tried to get Alexander to get it back, but apparently his ‘hands are tied’.” She made air-quotes with her fingers and rolled her eyes in disgust.

“Do you say this on purpose to get me to go to party, or will Italian shit be there actually?” Illya asked. It was a fair question.

“Both,” she admitted. “I want you to come and get out a bit. We haven’t done anything since the mall.” Illya froze up at that, remembering exactly why he felt off – because there was no Napoleon, and there was no Napoleon because of the mall. “But he will also be there. And I want you to get your father’s watch back almost as bad as you do. Alright?”

“Alright.” With that, they headed outside, teens rushing around them in an attempt to get out as fast as possible and put the week behind them. With a bit of contemplation, Illya finally asked her when they reached the car. “Will… will Cowboy be there?” he asked, not knowing what he wanted her answer to be.

“I don’t know,” she said easily with a shrug. “I haven’t mentioned it to him. Why? Does it matter?” she asked.

Illya shook his head and decided that he needed to drive and clear his mind. “No,” he murmured. “I suppose not.”

* * *

Gaby was such a liar. He should have known better.

There Napoleon was, meandering on the dock that jutted out into the lake with its chilly water and icy breeze swooping off of it and into their warm bodies that littered the shore. A bonfire burned in the attempt to make the weather a bit more pleasant, but Illya was sitting on a log by it alone, cold wind at his back, eyes glued to Napoleon’s laughing face as he bumped shoulders with several beautiful people standing on the docks, waiting for a ride on one of the many boats Alexander Vinciguerra had provided for the event. He took a swig of the shit beer someone had handed him and made a face before dumping it out into the sand at his feet. What a waste.

“Illya!” He turned around at the sound of his name to see Gaby coming toward him with a disgruntled Alexander Vinciguerra in tow. Illya resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Gaby was all smiles and relaxed limbs, the alcohol going straight to her head and making twin spots of red burn bright and high on her cheeks. At least she seemed to be having fun, but then again, the girl could drink her weight in alcohol and still dance to her heart’s content without throwing up or spilling a drop. Illya had no idea how she did it or where all the booze went.

“Gaby,” he said as she dropped into his lap with a laugh. He sighed and righted her before she fell out of his lap and into the ashy mess of the bonfire that was burning at her back.

“I found the Italian shit,” she slurred. “Italienische Sheiβe,” she giggled to herself.

“Where?” Illya said, practically dropping her to the ground as he stood up.

“He’s in one of the boats where her cousin is,” Vinciguerra added, trying to be helpful. Illya grimaced at him. He nodded and made sure Gaby was alright and sitting up on the log bench before he headed over to the dock, nerves growing as he got closer. He started tapping a finger against his thigh, swearing under his breath. This was not the time to lose his shit. No matter that he took his medication when he was supposed to and did his breathing exercises, he realized and accepted that it wasn’t always enough, that it was starting to not be enough for serious times like this when he had no idea what to do. Thoughts of the therapist and her number on that card popped into his mind as he climbed up to the dock. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He would look into it tomorrow. Maybe. Possibly. If he didn’t kill anyone tonight.

There. That seemed like a good compromise.

“Oi!” he yelled, catching sight of the boy who had taken his father’s watch. All thoughts of the therapist went out the window as he fisted his hand in the boy’s shirt, lifting him into the air. There went his calm. Arms were suddenly on him, several of Vinciguerra’s cousins and friends pulling him off the boy. “That is my watch,” Illya spit, shaking the boys off. “Give it back. Or I will rip it off of you still attached to arm.” The boy swallowed hard, a drop of sweat rolling down his temple. Illya felt his hand start to shake. He could see the watch, glinting in the bonfire light. It was his and he wanted it back.

“We do this like civil people yes?” Lippi said, appearing from his friend’s left side. Illya hadn’t even seen him there. His tunnel vision was getting the best of him. “Not like barbarians, with fists and such.”

“You say this because you have soft bones,” Illya spit and a few people chuckled behind him.

“We will have a contest!” Lippi said. “With the boats. A race,” he smiled now, liking the idea and Illya was smiling too. If there was something he could do, it was work a motorboat, no sweat. These idiots had no idea what they were in for. “You win, Luigi gives you back the watch. You lose, well. You get shit, you Russian giant.” Illya grit his teeth. He could just smash their heads together and take his watch back, ripping the strap be damned. But regardless of what Oleg thought when he had a bout of rage and took it out on the environment around him, he didn’t like causing destruction. Most of the time, he couldn’t control himself when that happened. The anger took over, or the panic if that’s what it happened to be at the time, and a part of Illya’s mind just watched in amazement and fear as he exploded. This, he thought, was better. A contest with a clear winner and loser, where he could walk away without hurting anyone.

“Fine.”

He wasn’t expecting the best boat, but the piece of shit that the Vinciguerra cousin gave him was a bit _too_ far in the realm of Actual Floating Trash. But Illya took a deep breath and got into the boat as Luigi got into one of better quality idling beside him. He looked a bit at a loss with the controls, making Illya’s confidence rise.

“One lap. There to one end and back. Whoever comes back first, wins,” Lippi said, which sounded easy enough to Illya’s ears. As long as the boat didn’t crap out on him halfway across the water, he was going to win this, easy as pie. People had started gathering on shore and on the dock to watch them go, some yelling his name, other’s yelling Luigi’s. Illya grit his teeth against the noise.

It was the hand on his shoulder that startled him more.

“Illya, this doesn’t seem to be the best of ideas,” Napoleon said. Illya had put him aside for the time being. But now? Now was not the time to talk to him, especially if Napoleon thought that Illya gave a shit about his opinion. He shrugged Napoleon’s hand off of his shoulder and until his boat from the dock, creating space between him and Napoleon.

“Watch and learn, Cowboy,” Illya snarled. Fuck Napoleon if he thought Illya was incapable.

And maybe Illya should have known that it was all too easy, that Lippi looked far too pleased with how things were going. Maybe he should have put a bit more stock into Napoleon’s concern. He should have considered that maybe it wasn’t _him_ Napoleon thought was going to mess up. Maybe it was everyone else.

Illya sped past Luigi in the first half, wild and free, feeling the cool wind in his hair, water splashing him and his coat, icy and fresh. He loved boating, loved feeling in control, even if it was just in control of a _boat_. He could finally show off something he was truly good at. Maybe then, he surmised, Napoleon would finally be upfront with him about whether or not he was attracted to Illya.

Illya cut the turn at the other end of the lake close, kicking up a spray of white, foamy water, and leaving a broiling path in his wake. There were hoots and hollers from the shore as he got closer to the finish line at the docks. He could barely make out Napoleon’s face, but Illya was sure that was him waving his arms and cheering him on, Gaby near him screaming at the top of her lungs as he sped toward them. A surge of warmth flooded his chest at the sight. Finally, someone besides Gaby was having a bit of faith in him. He needed that. Well, that and maybe a victory kiss as he claimed back his watch from Luigi. It was a nice thought.

Illya was able to note the second Gaby and Napoleon’s faces changed though, Napoleon paling as screaming as he pointed. Gaby swayed on her feet, too much alcohol in her system to be of much help at that point, but Illya turned his head in time to see Lippi on another boat cutting him off with a wicked smile and a swear in Italian before Illya flipped off the side of his boat at the force of impact. His head slammed the side of the boat as he went down, Luigi’s boat swerving to miss his body as it sunk beneath the water.

While Illya was not the strongest swimmer, he wasn’t completely useless either. But the smack on the head made his vision too fuzzy and he hadn’t been able to get a full breath before he sunk under the waves. His chest ached and his lungs burned, forcing him to gasp for air that wasn’t there. He choked on a mouthful of water, slipping down into the darkness of the lake. Illya wanted to panic, but his head hurt too much and he was struggling to get enough air to even start panicking with. Consciousness slowly left him.

The next thing Illya is aware of it a harsh jab to his diaphragm that made him spew the water from his lungs, nausea causing him to groan and slump against whoever had pulled him out. His ears were ringing and he couldn’t make out what was being said, clinging to the body that was holding him close. The person sounded angry, their words edges with a tone of nastiness that made Illya feel like someone was being threatened. Arms closed around him, the clothing heavy with water but exuding warmth. It was only then that he realized he was shivering and unable to feel his extremities due to cold numbness.

“…ease, come on. There are cops. Again. Just our luck,” a soft voice muttered to him. Napoleon. He could pick that voice out of anywhere. A surge of gratefulness was in his chest, battling with the embarrassment of being saved in front of so many witnesses and the leftover resentfulness he had because of the mall incident. “Gaby’s taking your car home so Oleg won’t suspect anything. Vinciguerra’s driving, so don’t worry. She won’t crash it or anything. I’m taking you with me. Is that alright?” Jesus, Napoleon was still talking?

“Da,” he murmured to tired and in pain to fight. He knew, realistically, he needed Napoleon to get the hell out of there. And maybe he liked the closeness, even if he wanted to be mad about it.

“Perfect. Now all we have to do is stand up,” Napoleon said, sliding out from under Illya and grappling with Illya’s large shoulders to hoist the other boy up. Illya blinked water from his eyes, scanning the shore of the lake now that he had a view of it. In the distance, police sirens could be heard. Teenagers were scuttling away to their cars, and Luigi and Lippi had vanished. So had his father’s watch. Illya wanted to lament his loss, but Napoleon was dragging him to a nondescript car near a copse of trees, so he forfeited his attempt at sadness and went along.

By the time Napoleon had snuck out through a dirt side road, the police sirens had caught up to the lake and anyone unlucky enough to still be around.

“Someone freaked out when you went under and called the police,” Napoleon explained calmly as he drove. Illya’s head flopped toward the boy’s voice. Water dripped from Napoleon’s hair, running down his pale neck and into the neck of his sleek, though soaked, shirt. His coat was gone, probably too heavy with water to be comfortably worn while driving.

“You...” Illya didn’t know what he wanted to say. 

"Hospital," Napoleon said, cutting him off. "We need to get you looked at."

"No," Illya snapped, sitting up in his seat. Everything spun. "Please no," he practically whispered as he fell back against the car seat. He couldn't stand a hospital, not in this state, not with the risk of Oleg finding out. 

"Okay, okay, shh, fine. It's fine. No hospital, I promise," Napoleon said, taking a turn and changing direction. 

"Thank..." Illya weakly murmured. 

“You can thank me when I’ve patched you up,” Napoleon said, waving him off. His voice shook and Illya wondered if it was from the cold. “Rest.” Illya closed his eyes. He was shaken awake some indeterminate time later, looking out his window to see a small house with the lights turned off, nothing stirring behind those curtained windows. “Home sweet home,” Napoleon said with a forced smile. “Out we go, Peril.”

He helped Illya stumble out of car and up the short stoop of stairs before the front door. After some finagling, Napoleon was able to get the front door open, dragging Illya in behind him. HE flicked a few lights on and then sat Illya down at the dining room table, a small thing beside the kitchen entrance. Napoleon disappeared for a moment, Illya’s head spinning as the pain began to radiate down his skull, and when Napoleon returned, it was with a full First Aid kit and a towel, which he pressed to the side of Illya’s head. Upstairs, someone stirred, footsteps shaking the ceiling above their heads. Napoleon’s face quickly crumpled as he and Illya realized Napoleon had no idea what he was doing.

“Sanders!” Napoleon yelled off to the side without taking his eyes off of Illya’s wound. Illya could only imagine how bad the gash was and how it would bruise in the morning. There was stomping down the stairs, and then an older man with glasses popped his head into the dining room.

“What have we here, Solo?”

“He slammed his head on a boat,” Napoleon said, intent on not looking Illya in the face. His voice raised in concern. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Think you can stitch it up?”

“Probably,” Sanders said. With a tired sigh, the man rubbed his face and wandered over. He batted Napoleon’s hands away from Illya’s face and peeled back the blood soaked towel, attempting to be gentle. “It’s not that deep. Head wounds bleed a lot, son,” he said, addressing Illya now. “A few stitches and you’ll be right as rain.” He turned to Napoleon. “My kit is in the bathroom, under the sink. Hop to it, Solo.” Illya slowly looked over to where Napoleon was hopping from one foot to the other, unsure if he should leave. “You’re boy will be fine,” Sanders said, a smile inching its way onto his face.

That caught Illya’s attention. “Not his boy,” he replied, then winced as Sanders put pressure back on the gash at the side of his forehead.

“Oh, so you _are_ the Russian boy Solo won’t shut up about? What did you do, Solo? Drop the kid on his head? That’s no way to get a date,” Sanders said. Illya risked a look at Napoleon and was flattered to find to spots of red on his cheeks. He mumbled something and dashed out of the room in the direction Illya assumed the bathroom was in. “That finally got rid of him,” Sanders said with a smile and a chuckle. “Look up now?”

It took a few minutes for Napoleon to get back but when he did, Sanders set right to work. He cleaned, numbed, and stitched Illya’s gash up in less than half an hour. By the time he was done, Illya’s ears had stopped ringing and his vision had cleared up. His mind was clear enough that he felt he could finally ask questions of his host and surgeon.

“Where am I?” Illya asked.

“I brought you home with me, remember?” Napoleon said carefully, looking off to a wall. “You didn’t want to go to a hospital.” That sounded like Illya.

“Who are you?” Illya said, gingerly poking at his stitched and bandaged head. Sanders slapped Illya’s hand away from his handiwork.

“Don’t touch that. And I’m this rascal’s parent,” he said as he threw a smirk at Napoleon. Napoleon rolled his eyes. “My shift is in two hours. I’ll be getting ready, but tell me if either of you need anything, alright?” he said to Napoleon, who nodded, still not looking at Illya. “Thanks for coming to me, kid.” He ruffled Napoleon’s hair as he headed to the bathroom to start his day.

“That… is your father?” Illya said in confusion. “You call him Sanders?”

“Technically step-father. My mother married him when I was two. My biological father died when I was quite young. Technically, he’s the only father I’ve ever consciously known,” Napoleon said, looking at his hands now.

“He is surgeon?”

“Police officer, actually. Picked a few things up on the job.”

“And you still steal?” Illya said, shaking his head. Americans.

 “Yes,” Napoleon said. “It is within my son-ly duties to find something to piss him off with. All his station buddies back where we used to live know me well, and not because dear old dad brought me to work with him on slow days.” Of course he would get caught just starting out. Illya imagined how embarrassed Napoleon’s step-father must have been. He avoided thinking about how Oleg would have reacted if it had been him.

“You avoid my eyes,” Illya said trying not to sound too put out. “But you saved me.”

“Well, I should have stopped you in the first place,” Napoleon snapped and ah, there it was. The unwarranted guilt. “After everything I’ve already done to you, I had to go and let this happen.” Napoleon finally locked eyes with them. They were wide and fierce and shining with unshed tears. Illya felt something in his gut twist at the sight.

“My choice, not yours,” he said.

“I think I’ve made enough mistakes with you,” Napoleon said, cutting to the chase. So they were finally going to talk about it, were they? This would be interesting. “I am truly sorry, Illya. For how I reacted and what I said and didn’t say. And then I saw you go down under those waves and I…” Napoleon closed his eyes. “In the dressing room, when I saw your scars,” and now Illya chokes on his next sharp inhale. “I’m sorry for staring, but I was trying to imagine a world where I didn’t get to meet you and…” Napoleon stopped and let out a harsh chuckle. “Well, it was just the worst, Peril.” He looked up at Illya, swallowed hard. “And then you went under the water and there was a spray of blood on Lippi’s boat and all I thought was that I was going to have to find out what a world without you would be like, regardless.”

The apology was so heartfelt and full of emotion. Napoleon’s face was red with blush, but he had said his piece and was waiting for Illya’s reaction. In his defense, Illya thought he deserved a moment to register everything from Napoleon _not_ thinking badly of him to the other boy panicking at the thought of Illya being dead and gone. Maybe they hadn’t known each other that long, but it seemed they had known each other long enough to notice and lament the other’s loss of presence in their lives. No one had ever apologized like that, save for Gaby. No one had ever made him feel like this, not even Gaby. Something was making Illya warm all the way to his fingers and toes. Something was making him want to pull Napoleon close to him, pull the other boy onto his lap and kiss his face, press his nose to the hollow of his throat, breathe in his scent.

He must have been far too silent, because the next thing he knew, Napoleon was clearing his throat and saying, “I understand that you can’t forgive me. But know that I don’t think any less of you. Alright? I’ll sleep on the couch and you can have my bed. Let me just-”

Illya caught him by the sleeve. “Hold horses, Cowboy,” he said, his voice soft and gravelly. He cleared his throat. “You saved me. Thank you. And I accept apology – not because you saved me, but because I may have… how do you say, overreacted?”

“I don’t think you did,” Napoleon whispered, staring at Illya’s hand. “Stay the night?”

“I will do nothing with you, Cowboy, if that is what you think. This is not Seven Minutes in Hell.”

“It’s Seven Minutes in Heaven, smart ass,” Napoleon said, a smile stretching across his face. He twisted his sleeve out of Illya’s grip, replacing it with his hand. “Come on. You’d might as well stay over. It’s Saturday morning, after all. And if we haven’t woken my mother up, she’ll be nice enough to make pancakes when she wakes up at a sane hour.”

“Pancakes?” Illya said, glad of the subject change and the lack of attention given to the fact that their hands were clasped tightly together, fingers entwined.

“What, not a fan of pancakes, Peril? You will be.”

“Eh,” Illya said noncommittally, focused more on the feeling of Napoleon’s hand in his. “I am soaked,” he said instead.

“I’m sure I have something lying around somewhere that you can borrow. Don’t get too excited at wearing my clothes, Peril,” Napoleon joked, leading him upstairs.

“There was never chance of you holding horses, was there?” Illya said, unable to stop the smile on his face.

“No. No, there wasn’t.”

* * *

Illya woke up on the left side of Napoleon’s bed, pressed against the wall with Napoleon at his back, pressed up to the length of his body, dead asleep and drooling on the borrowed shirt. It was baggy on Illya, some large monstrosity that Napoleon got from a rally, the shirt a dress on him and almost perfect for Illya. Illya turned to face a sleeping Napoleon, his face slack and relaxed like Illya had never really seen it. Napoleon’s hair was mussed beyond repair, creases on his face from the pillow bright red against his morning-pale skin. Rays of sun streaked his face, sneaking in from between the blinds at the window.

He was beautiful. Sweet and beautiful and, technically, Illya owed him his _life_ but Napoleon didn’t seem to want it. Not because he didn’t think Illya’s life was worth anything, but because he wanted Illya to have that still and didn’t think he needed to be owed for doing the right thing. Or at least, the thing that Napoleon wanted and chose to do, regardless if it was right or wrong. Illya ached to stroke that sleeping face, kiss those lush lips, cradle that lithe body. He could imagine them, in that bed, lying around and talking for hours, about everything and nothing at all.

Oh fuck, was this what falling in love felt like?

Later, as they ate pancakes that Napoleon’s mother had indeed fried up for them, Illya watched Napoleon’s smile light up the kitchen and wondered if falling in love with the other boy was such a bad thing after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha. I lied. I have no idea what I'm doing. Jokes on you lovely creatures.
> 
> Translations:  
> Ich liebe dich, Liebling: I love you, darling.  
> Bis morgen: Until tomorrow/See you tomorrow.  
> Italienische Sheiβe: Italian shit


	3. I'm Not Going Home Alone Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, did I mention that this sorta doubles as a coffee shop AU? Not in the traditional sense. But in the "there's coffee and they drink it and it's romANTIC GOD DAMN IT" sense. 
> 
> SO: 
> 
> Of breaking in, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, that lullaby that Illya sings to Napoleon is an actual thing. Go see it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8f8WYvAo-RA).

“So what do you even plan to do with all of this?” Illya looked up at Napoleon and frowned at his question. They may have been growing closer, but that didn’t mean that Illya was completely on board with it. He had reflected after he had come home to find that Oleg had left earlier the day before on one of his ominous business trips, and so had not missed him. There would be no stumbling through explanations about his absence and injury now that Illya had time to actually formulate a plan. But he had reflected. Maybe he didn’t want to fall in love with Napoleon. Maybe he could stop this process, put on the breaks, so to speak. He could just not talk about anything personal with him.

“We are doing calculus, not talking about the future,” Illya said, dodging the question and working on his homework. When he looked up, he immediately regretted it. Napoleon was giving him big, doe eyes.

“But you’re so good at it. C’mon, Peril. There has to be a reason.”

“My uncle,” Illya said. He went back to his homework. Well, there went that plan.

“So, what, he just wanted you to be good at math, so you were?”

“No,” Illya said. He knew Napoleon wouldn’t stop until he gave in. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then looked around the library. No one else was there. He’d might as well. “No. I was given … second chance at good future coming to America. Oleg realized my mental capabilities. Put them to use, among other things.”

“Mental capabilities?” Napoleon teased, nudging his shin under the table with his foot. “Like what?”

“I have high IQ,” Illya admitted reluctantly. “135, they tell me. I like chess. I have… won championships here. And in Russia.”

Napoleon’s eyes widened and Illya regretted telling him instantly. “You’re a savant.”

“No…?” Illya said, a bit confused. He wouldn’t use that word to describe himself.

“Yes,” Napoleon said excitedly. “I’m friends with a genius!” He giggled in genuine happiness. “My god, you’re amazing. First you’re built like a tank, then you think like a computer.” He paused and frowned. “Well, that would explain your social skills.”

“Excuse me?” Illya asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely nothing,” Napoleon said with a wide smile. Illya rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that came to his own face, his stomach tying in knots at the sight. Fuck. “What do you want to do with all the math, then?” Illya was silent. “Illya?” To tell or not to tell, that was the question. Yes, Gaby knew. But could he trust Napoleon? There was a tug in his chest that said that Napoleon was exactly who he should trust and that if he didn’t, it said more about what type of person he was than what type of person Napoleon was.

“I… like architecture. And… and when I turn 18, I am leaving my uncle’s house and doing what I want to do,” Illya said, voice going harsh. He gritted his teeth and looked up to Napoleon. But the boy’s face was just confused, and it was then that Illya realized that Napoleon had no idea just what his home life situation was.

“Your uncle that strict?” Napoleon joked, but Illya shook his head. Was military-like control over his life strict? Were physical punishment, emotional abuse, and psychological neglect strict? He was thinking that was a bit of an understatement. He said as much.

“Understatement, Cowboy.” Napoleon was frowning again.

“Hey, if something is going on and you need help-”

“I can solve my own problems,” Illya cut him off with. He lifted his completed homework sheet as proof. “Unlike some people,” he continued, gesturing to Napoleon’s own barely-started sheet.

Napoleon huffed but allowed the subject change and Illya let out a breath of relief at the near-miss. For now, he would try more than ever to keep his distance. He didn’t need his feelings for Napoleon to cloud his judgement and ruin his plans. The less the other boy knew, the better.

* * *

It didn’t last long.

 Oleg had returned by the time he had come home that tutoring night, so Illya was hypervigilant again, aware of everything he was doing and saying, winding himself up as taught as a tight rope. By the time the weekend came around and Oleg told him he had another out-of-town meeting, Illya was beginning to wonder how he lived years with the man and hadn’t gone insane. Why it was getting more and more unbearable to be in the same house as Oleg, Illya had no idea, but his theory popped up on the night Oleg was once again heading out.

Or rather, _got stuck in the window_.

Illya had seen him from a second floor window scrambling in before the window started to fall and caught him in its grasp. He hit the stairs seconds later, praying to whomever was up there that he get to Napoleon before Oleg did. Thankfully, Illya did. The look of surprise on Napoleon’s face as he squirmed in the window and then looked up was priceless. Illya wished he had time to grab his phone from his room and snap a picture, but as it was, Oleg was already coming down the hall to library where they were, hollering that he had seen someone by the window in the backyard.

“Illya?”

“What are you doing here?” Illya snarled as he roughly jammed the window up and pulled Napoleon into the house. He crashed to the ground and Oleg stopped yelling, switching to angry Russian.

“That doesn’t sound friendly,” Napoleon admitted.

“Upstairs. Now. My room is second on left. Shut door. Explain later,” Illya said, shoving Napoleon in the opposite direction of his uncle’s voice, toward the back staircase that had once been used as the servant’s staircase to get around. “Go.” With one more look of confusion, Napoleon scampered off and Illya let out a breath of relief. The things Oleg would do to the other boy if he found out…

“Illya! There is someone in the house. Did you hear them?”

“I saw them jump back out the window,” Illya lied. He huffed some breaths in exhaustion. Napoleon was heavy. “I tried to grab them but…”

Surprisingly, Oleg clapped him on the shoulder. He must have seen the confusion on Illya’s face because he explained, “You are a good soldier, son. Come. We will search the house. There may be others.” Illya wanted to groan, but instead, he kept up the act and took the revolver that Oleg threw to him to search the house with. He prayed to high heaven that Napoleon had shut his room door or else he was definitely going to get shot.

The search took the better part of an hour, Oleg taking the first floor while Illya took the second floor. Thankfully his room door was shut and his relief bled out of him when he and Oleg switched floors to double-check the others’ work. They met in the foyer once they were both done, Oleg commending him again. It made him feel sick, that he knew how to use the gun in his hands, that his uncle was praising him for his stealth and lethalness. Illya could easily kill someone, and his uncle knew it and Illya knew it. He wondered if Napoleon knew it and how he would react once he did, because in Illya’s eyes, it was just a matter of time.

Illya went to give Oleg the gun back, but his uncle shook his head.

“Keep it. You will be alone for a week this time. It is time that you went a step further in protecting yourself,” Oleg said, pushing the gun back into Illya’s hands. “When I come back, we will see about getting you a proper weapon. Not like this one, like your _father_ used.” He made a face of disgust, tucking his gun away on his person and picking up his travelling suitcase. He dusted off his hat on his shirt as he opened the front door. “No guts, that one,” Oleg muttered, making Illya flinch, his stomach turning. He nodded to Illya then left, the door slamming behind him.

Illya needed a minute to collect himself, the gun feeling far too heavy in his hand. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the wall and took a few deep breaths to steady himself. He hated how Oleg spoke of his parents, as if Illya wouldn’t care and shared his opinion of them. It made him physically sick. Both of his parents were dead – what ever happened to not speaking ill of the dead?

A crash from upstairs made him realize he still had someone to take care of. Illya pulled himself together as best he could and made his way upstairs and to his bedroom. For the most part, he had the second floor of the house to himself with Oleg’s room and personal bathroom on the first floor by the library room on one side of the state-of-the-art kitchen. He liked being away from his uncle; it felt more private that way. Speaking of, Illya cringed at the thought of his privacy being destroyed by Napoleon and his damned curiosity. Chances were that the other boy had already gone through all of his things. But the next thing he knew, Illya was feeling exasperatedly fond of Napoleon and his nosey ways. His not-fall-in-love plan was definitely failing.

“What have you done?” was the first thing Illya said as he walked into his room, shutting the door behind him, just as Napoleon said, “It wasn’t me!”

“There is no one else in here,” Illya pointed out, a smile coming to his face at the look of chagrin on Napoleon’s.

“Your lamp is very insecure,” Napoleon said instead, his arms coming out from behind his back to reveal Illya’s desk lamp separated from it’s stand. He rolled his eyes and snatched the broken fixture from Napoleon’s hands, not actually cross.

“This is what happens when you are nosey,” he said as he set the lamp aside to fix another day.

“I’m not nosey,” Napoleon protested. He sniffed off  in Illya’s direction as he looked away, avoiding eye contact. “I’m… curious.”

“Hmmm,” Illya mused. Then he sat at his desk and gestured for the other boy to sit on his bed, ignoring the way his stomach flip flopped when Napoleon’s hands curled in the sheets. He wondered what they would look like curling in those sheets for another reason, if they would be sweat-slicked and shaking, if Napoleon would blush all down his body with want. Illya cleared his throat and shook his head to dislodge the image from his mind. “Explain.”

Napoleon hummed and hawed before finally giving in and having the decency to look embarrassed. “So, I had no idea you lived in such a nice part of town,” he went with.

“Is that so?” Illya asked, crossing his arms.

“That is so,” Napoleon repeated.

“And you just… break into houses on daily basis, yes?” Illya asked, skeptical. Though, now that he was thinking about it, he shouldn’t put such stupidity past Napoleon.

Case in point, Napoleon said, “As a matter of fact, I do. It’s a hobby of mine.”

“Burglary is hobby now? You need new hobbies.”

“Maybe,” Napoleon conceded. “Thank you for covering me.”

“Oleg would have shot you,” Illya said with a straight face. It took a few seconds, but it finally sunk in for Napoleon that Illya was not, in fact, kidding.

“What the fuck?” Napoleon swore. “Seriously? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“In other circumstances, yes. But seeing as you need to be taught lesson, I think it would be good for character,” Illya responded with a shrug, just to see Napoleon’s eyes widen and bulge from their sockets. He smirked.

“I’m hurt,” Napoleon said, feigning betrayal as he pressed both hands to his chest, right over his heart.

“Impossible,” Illya joked along. He stood up and walked over to Napoleon, poking him in the side. “Too hard to be hurt. That is for men with soft-spots.”

“I have soft-spots,” Napoleon argued, eyes going oddly soft as he gazed at Illya. Illya cleared his throat in discomfort. “And besides,” Napoleon said, moving on. “I’m not the only one who’s too hard. Hypocrite. That coming from the man who tells his friends nothing and keeps his walls nice and high.”

“Maybe I like them high,” Illya said with a shrug.

“Maybe I’m tired of climbing ladders and laying siege,” Napoleon countered.\

“Maybe,” Illya said.

“And then again, maybe not. You’re lucky you’re cute,” Napoleon told him. And then he winked. Jesus, but Illya didn’t know people actually winked in real life. He thought it was something reserved for the movies or something equally ridiculous as that. But here Napoleon was, winking at him. Illya could feel the scraps on his knees as he fell fast and hard for the other boy and his charming ways. “Anyway! Nice digs.” Illya could see a conversation changer for what it was.

“Thank you,” he said dryly.

“What is it that your uncle does for a living, again?”

“That is very good question,” Illya admitted. Then he shrugged.

“Wait,” Napoleon said. “You mean you don’t know?”

“No,” Illya said. “But, probably nothing legal. That is as much as I know. Keeps roof over head and food in belly. That is all I care about.” Which was a lie. He was simultaneously too afraid to and desperately aching to know what his uncle did for a living that required him to go out of town so much or even out of state and that could pay for an old, historic house like this.

“Where is your dear uncle anyway?”

“Business trip,” Illya said with a shrug, sitting next to Napoleon. Napoleon leaned into his side, seemingly unconsciously.

“For that super, secret illegal job?” Illya chuckled and nodded. “You know, he could be a spy.”

“If he was, he would not be on America’s side.”

“No,” Napoleon admitted. “Probably not.” He flopped onto his back on Illya’s bed. “You know, he came up here. But he walked right by your room. Which is a great thing. I was about to shit myself silly.” Napoleon’s face was deadpan as he spoke. He flicked his eyes up at Illya. “In all seriousness.”

“We have… understanding. If door is closed, the he does not bother coming in. That is my… only sense of privacy. It is how…” He stopped. It was how he was able to attempt suicide. Most guardians would have abolished the rule by now in fear of another attempt. Oleg was something else, though. The rule still stood.

Napoleon must have understood where Illya had been going with his statement because he pressed his forehead into Illya’s hip where it was by his head and sighed. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

Illya, with a lump in his throat at how good that statement made him feel, nodded.

“Thank you,” he whispered. His hip felt like it was on fire where Napoleon was touching it. He could feel the other boy’s breath against his leg where Napoleon was panting.

“That’s what friends are for, right?” Napoleon said with a tinkling laugh and Illya felt his stomach tighten in dissatisfaction at the word. Friends. Only a few weeks ago he didn’t want Napoleon to use that word out of spite and annoyance at the other boy. Now, he didn’t want Napoleon to use that word out of want of something more. So selfish, Illya thought. He was so damn selfish. He didn’t deserve something good like that. He didn’t deserve Napoleon. Something ugly yanked at the pit of his stomach, made him feel sick. His hand shook. “So, your uncle is going to be gone for a few days, right?”

“What?” Illya said, head foggy.

“Oleg,” Napoleon said, sitting up and turning to Illya. “He’s going to be gone for a few days at least, right?”

“Yes. Why?” Illya asked, trying to push back the ugly feeling, the darkness in the corners of his mind that he could feel creeping up on him, sending chills licking down his spine.

“Can I stay over?” Napoleon asked.

“Can you what?” Illya yelped. For the moment, shock won and the darkness was banished.

“You know. Stay over. For the night. Keep you company. Kinda shitty to be alone on a Friday. We can watch movies, cook fun food. Stay up as long as we can.”

“I’m insomniac,” Illya said, too shocked to respond to anything else.

“Tough shit,” Napoleon said in sympathy. “Me too.” Illya just stared at him, trying to figure out what Napoleon would get out of this. “So… Can I?”

“Can you what?” Illya asked.

“Oh my – can I stay over?” Napoleon groaned. The sound made Illya’s stomach flip-flop.

“I – why?”

“…why?” Napoleon asked. Illya nodded. He’d might as well be truthful. He was confused. Sure they were friends. But… did friends do this? Maybe the closest ones, or when someone was in danger and needed comforting, like when he had hurt himself on the boat. But this was just an ordinary night. Illya was used to being left alone. He couldn’t understand it. “Do I need an excuse to hang out with you?” Napoleon asked. He smiled. “Or are you trying to get me to stroke your ego?”

At the word _stroke_ Illya felt himself go red to the tips of his ears. “No, I just…”

“Because I could tell you it’s because out of all the friends I’ve made since I’ve been here, you’re my favorite one. You’re smart, we can talk shit together, my cousin loves you…” He grinned slyly. “You’re adorable.” Illya felt his face flush again. “Especially when you blush.” Illya got up and turned around until his back was facing Napoleon. “Awh, Peril. Don’t be embarrassed. I like it.” Illya heard the bed creak as Napoleon stood up. Arms wrapped themselves around his waist, a head pressing cheek first against his back right between his shoulder blades. “Everyone thinks they’ve got me figured out. Serial flirter, a player, a cocky guy full of self-confidence. No one blushes anymore. Because no one takes me seriously, even when I want them to,” Napoleon muttered. “But you do.”

Illya considered fighting it, fighting the want that made his insides go molten and slutty, fighting the urge to turn around and push Napoleon onto his bed and – and…

Well. To be honest, Illya had no idea how to go about any of that.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh that made him feel something like relief. “You can stay.” Just don’t stop holding me, he thought to himself.

“Perfect,” Napoleon mumbled against his back. He held on for a few more blissful seconds and then cleared his throat before letting go and stepping back and away from Illya. Illya felt cold and bereft, like something was missing that he wanted desperately to come back. He grumbled to himself and turned around to face Napoleon annoyed that his bad mood vanished because of the person who caused it in the first place. But with the way Napoleon was now smiling from ear to ear, that charming twinkle in his eye, Illya was sure it was impossible to still be grumpy.

“What now?” he asked.

“Now?” Napoleon said, rubbing his palms together. “Now we have _fun_.”

* * *

Several hours later found Illya waking up out a fitful sleep. He and Napoleon had stayed up watching stupid movies and eating the ice cream and pizza Napoleon had made him go out in the middle of the night to buy. The American version of 'fun' was a bit confusing, but he got to spend the night with Napoleon, so Illya let it pass. He didn’t remember falling asleep but he was sure Napoleon had been by him on the bed when he last checked. Illya looked at his wrist to check his watch before the bareness made him remember what had happened to it. He sighed and looked at his alarm clock. It was past three in the morning.

The smell of cigarette smoke hit him first and Illya’s eyes wandered to the glass doors that opened onto the small balcony attached to his room. They were cracked a smidge and the smoke was wafting inside from where he could see the silhouette of Napoleon sitting on the railing, the cherry of his cigarette smoldering the only light in the dark. Illya sighed to himself and got out of bed, stretching and cracking his neck. Instead of making his way to Napoleon, he headed downstairs to the kitchen, where he set a pot of coffee going. He puttered around, grabbing them both mugs and fixings for the way Napoleon liked his coffee. Far too much cream and not enough sugar for the amount of it that Napoleon put in, Illya thought. Then again, he took his only with sugar – which wasn’t so bad compared to Gaby’s straight-up black, industrial strength coffee tastes.

Once the coffee was in cups and done the way they each liked it, he snagged the two mugs and made his way back upstairs, bypassing the bed in favor of going out onto the balcony with Napoleon. He was still sitting on the railing, his cigarette smoldering down to the filter. He turned toward Illya when he heard him coming and gave Illya a smile that was all teeth and blinding happiness. Napoleon was in a pair of long pajama pants that belonged to Illya, one of Illya’s warmer sweaters thrown over his body, the sleeves so long they practically swallowed up Napoleon’s hands. It was as endearing as it was sexy and Illya had to fight between wanting to grab him off the railing to kiss him senseless or else cuddle him to the point of bruising.

“One of those for me?” Napoleon asked, extending a hand and making grabby motions with it.

“No,” Illya said as he walked forward, his feet hitting the cold wood. “I am suddenly caffeine addict and need both.” He rolled his eyes and handed Napoleon his. “Stop acting like a child.”

“Yay! Coffee. It’s freezing,” Napoleon said, flicking his cigarette stub off the balcony and huddling both hands around the hot coffee cup. He took a tentative sip and then looked up at Illya with a large smile. “Just the way I like it.”

“Is like I know you or something,” Illya said with an eyeroll, taking a seat beside him. “We could go inside.”

“I can’t smoke inside,” Napoleon said with a shrug. He took a sip of coffee and then fumbled out another cigarette from the pack in his hands. “Want one?” Illya nodded, taking the proffered carton and snagging a cigarette for himself. He let Napoleon light it for him, fixated on the way the other boy’s fingers gripped his lighter. “Your house is pretty,” Napoleon said, lighting his own cigarette. He took a drag from it and blew out a pretty line of Os into the night air. “Took a walk around a little while ago when you fell asleep. Don’t worry, I didn’t take anything,” he said, before Illya could accuse him. Illya snorted. He wouldn’t put it past Napoleon. “Lots of windows and dark wood. I really liked the library.”

“We can go in there tomorrow… if you want,” Illya tacked onto the end.

“I’d like that,” Napoleon said, grinning. “All the cool books were too high up for me. I think I need a particular Russian giant to help me get them down.” Illya rolled his eyes to cover the hotness in his cheeks and took a drag from his cigarette then a sip from his coffee mug. “Speaking of Russia…”

“What?” Illya asked, a bit uneased.

“No, nothing. I was just wondering… when did you come to America?”

It was late, or early depending on how one looked at it, so Illya sighed and threw caution to the wind. The last person he wanted to hide from was Napoleon. “I was fourteen”

“And you came here with Oleg,” Napoleon said, not really asking.

“Yes,” Illya said. He shrugged, sipped his coffee and took a moment to feel the hot liquid burn down his throat. “My parents died when I was ten and eleven. First father, then mother.”

Napoleon’s face softened. He flicked some ash off his cigarette. “I’m sorry.”

“Was long time ago,” Illya insisted even though it never felt that way.

“Doesn’t matter,” Napoleon said. “Did Oleg take you in?”

“He was only one around. Father’s brother. My mother… I was not allowed to stay with her. So they gave me to Oleg. And then she died.” He grit his teeth. He could have had time with his mother, could have been the reason that kept her off the streets and out of strangers’ beds. But no one would let a ten year old stay with a prostitute.

“…can I ask what happened? With your parents and why you left Russia?” Napoleon asked, voice hushed. “You don’t have to tell me… but I’d like you to trust me enough to.” He looked away, took a long drag of his cigarette and then let the smoke out through his nose like a dragon. “Whenever you’re ready, that is.”

Trust. Did he trust Napoleon enough? Illya thought so. So he inhaled the rest of his cigarette and threw it off the balcony into the manicured lawn below, Oleg’s grass be damned.

“Father… he was SVR. He… I do not know what he did. But he was arrested for it. Must have been serious crime against the government because he never came back and I was given to Oleg. My mother… she had taken to the streets to support us after father was taken. She died a year later.” He closed his eyes, remembering the last time he saw her, dead in a cheap casket, looking like a skeleton with parchment stretched over her bones. “AIDS.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Napoleon said and suddenly his hand was on Illya’s shoulder. Illya looked up to see Napoleon off of the railing, cigarette thrown away and his coffee mug on the floor. Napoleon was kneeling by Illya where he was sitting on a stool.

“Is cold, get off the floor,” Illya said but Napoleon shook his head.

“Finish,” he insisted.

Illya hesitated and then sighed. He felt numb. Wrong. But he kept going, feeling his hand start to shake.

“Oleg is ex-KGB. Worked close with Putin back then… maybe now, too.” He swallowed hard, his throat clicking with the force. “Warned Oleg something was going to happen. New evidence that came up about my father. He… kindly suggested Oleg leave Russia for a while, while he worked on fixing whatever it was they found. Probably that Oleg helped my father with whatever happened.” His hand refused to remain steady. “And now I am here. With an uncle that does not want me, that does not like me, that does not care for me and I…” Can’t handle it, he didn’t say. Don’t know how to handle it, he didn’t say either. Illya just sat there, holding his breath, trying his best not to cry, to calm down, to not lash out because Napoleon was right there and he could get hurt.

Napoleon’s hand was suddenly in his shaking one, gripping it tight. Illya’s eyes flicked up to him in surprise.

“I want you,” Napoleon whispered, eyes wide and glassy. “I like you. I care about you. I didn’t want to move here. I wanted to stay in New York City, where I knew everyone and got away with too much. The only good thing about coming here was Gaby and then I met you. You’ve made this the best move of my life. Hey,” he said because Illya had let a tear slide down his cheek and he regretted it. But Napoleon just wiped it away with his free hand. “So… I’m sorry that things happened the way they did to get you here. But I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Okay?” He leaned forward and for a moment, Illya’s heart crammed itself up his throat because he thought Napoleon was going to kiss him. But Napoleon simply pressed their foreheads together and somehow, for right now, that was better than any kiss would have been.  

“Okay,” Illya croaked, unable to say anything else.

They stayed like that for a while until Napoleon complained about his knees and stood up stretching. Then he rubbed his arms and laughed, complaining about the cold. Illya shrugged, still not completely feeling better. Somehow, Napoleon thought that sitting right in Illya’s lap would help that, so the other boy plopped himself down on Illya and snuggled up to him. The shock was enough to make Illya pull back from his dark thoughts for a moment, mostly to be annoyed that Napoleon kept shocking him out of his brooding periods.

“What are you doing?” Illya asked, unsure what to do with his arms.

“Um… cuddling manly for warmth?”

“There is nothing manly about how you are cuddle,” Illya said, his words not even making sense to him, he was so flustered.

“You’re like a furnace,” Napoleon said, ignoring him. Illya rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that the human touch and the connection he was sharing with Napoleon had calmed him a bit. He slowly lowered his arms, rest them around Napoleon’s waist, high enough that the other boy wouldn’t get the wrong idea, though Illya really wanted him to. But Illya was better than that, so he settled for having Napoleon in his arms with his head on Illya’s shoulder, those waves of hair tickling Illya’s nose.

They stayed that way for hours, Napoleon snatching the carton of cigarettes that Illya belatedly realized were actually his that Napoleon had snagged. He was not surprised in the least. He was surprised, however, that Napoleon had found a pen and was scratching things onto the sides of the cigarettes. It was too dark outside for him to see, but he could make out a few words, like _lies, unhappy endings, unbroken hearts,_ and maybe that last one was _love_? He tried not to read into that too much.

“That way, you’ll always be breathing something in,” Napoleon said, voice slurred with sleepiness.

“I am breathing something in,” Illya said blandly. “Nicotine. Tabaco. Carcinogens. Several somethings.”

“Shhhh,” Napoleon said. “Stop it. You’re prettier when you don’t prove me wrong.”

“Lies,” Illya said, playing along.

“Okay, you got me,” Napoleon said, voice laced with sleep. He cracked a yawn. “It’s hot when you put me in my place. Really gets me… going, you know?” Illya wanted to say so many things to that, but Napoleon was fading fast. He grabbed the other boy’s phone and checked the time. It was almost six in the morning. Good God, but they should probably be heading back to bed. Even Illya was getting a headache from lack of sleep.

“What time are you expected home?” he asked Napoleon.

“Dunno. Probably noon at the latest so my mom and Saunders don’t-” He yawned again. “Freak out.”

“Then we can still get six hours of sleep,” Illya said. “You can walk? Or do I carry you?”

“You think you can carry – _whoa_ , okay, you can carry me, never mind!” Napoleon said as Illya hoisted him in his arms. Illya shrugged as he made his way back inside where it was warmer and unceremoniously dumped Napoleon onto the bed. While Napoleon muttered his complaints, Illya went to shut the balcony doors. He hoped into bed after that and just barely held back his gasp of surprise when Napoleon immediately snuggled up to him with a yawn. “Say something so I can sleep,” Napoleon mumbled.

“You are already sleeping,” Illya said, rolling his eyes and trying not to smile.

“Nuh-uh,” came the fading response. “C’mon. Jus… so I can sleep to your voice.” Illya felt his heart lurch in his chest, something warm burning in his gut. He bit his lip and then pressed the tip of his nose into Napoleon’s hair, gently inhaling the scent of stale coffee and cigarette smoke.

“Баю-баюшки-баю, не ложися на краю. Придёт сереньки волчок и ухватит за бочок. Он ухватит за бочок и потащит во лесок, и потащит во лесок. Под ракитовый кусток. К нам, волчок, не ходи, нашу Машу не буди…” _Sleep, sleep, sleep. Don't sleep too close on the edge of the bed. Or a little grey wolf will bite you by the flank. And drag you into the woods underneath the willow root._

His mother used to sing it to him, and Illya repeated what he could remember until he could hear Napoleon snoring softly against his chest. And then Illya let himself fall off into sleep as well knowing he was well and truly fucked now.

It seemed he was definitely falling in love. And it seemed he didn’t have the presence of mind, or any type of self-preservation instincts, to stop himself.


	4. I'm Not Going Home Alone Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More queerness and pining. 
> 
> And then sadness. 
> 
> And then, old faces making themselves known - and not in a good way. 
> 
> And then more sadness. 
> 
> And then, a glimmer of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF SUICIDE, SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, SELF-HARM, REALLY NEGATIVE THOUGHTS, EXPLICIT DESCRIPTION OF PANIC ATTACKS**  
>  _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
> I thought the last chapter was getting pretty long, so this is the part two of that one. Only two parts, don't worry. But this is the rest of what was on the outline for that chapter.

Waking up in the morning was all tangled sheets and soft limbs. Illya looked at his alarm clock and rubbed his face. It was almost noon. Napoleon was due back home soon. He sighed and looked down where the other boy was sprawled across his chest, snoring softly and drooling onto Illya’s sleeping shirt. Illya sighed, unable to be angry at Napoleon. All that happened when he looked at Napoleon was that his stomach tied up in knots and his heart sped up, like when he got particularly anxious. But this was different. He didn’t mind when his heart sped up now.

“Oi,” he murmured, giving Napoleon a gentle shake. “Is morning.” Napoleon didn’t even flinch. Illya rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand down Napoleon’s back. “Napoleon. Up.” He gave the boy a sharp shove. The moan he got was expected, but the way it vibrated against his chest was a surprise. Illya had to swallow hard to keep himself in control as Napoleon whined against him.

“You’re a cruel person, Peril,” Napoleon mumbled. He looked up at Illya with sleepy eyes, still red. “Also, only my mother calls me Napoleon.”

“That is a lie,” Illya said, hands still rubbing up and down Napoleon’s back. “Gabby calls you Napoleon as well.”

“True,” Napoleon conceded. “Ugh, and do we have to be up?”

“Noon,” Illya responded, nodding to the alarm clock on his bedside table. “You have curfew.”

“Right,” Napoleon said, cracking a yawn. “Fine, let’s go. But I’m sleeping in the car.” He started to get up and Illya dropped his hands, missing the warmth of Napoleon’s body against his. Napoleon looked almost childlike as he got out of Illya’s bed, sleep rumpled and rubbing his eyes with a fist. “Where’re my clothes?” he asked, yawning again.

“Just wear mine. I will wash yours and bring them to you at school,” Illya offered as he slid out of bed, immediately wanting to curl back up into a ball under the covers. He wanted to drag Napoleon back under them with him.

“M’kay,” Napoleon mumbled, not too fussy in his state of fatigue.

Illya rolled his eyes, glad Napoleon had his closed so he couldn’t see Illya’s smile of fondness. “Come. We go,” he said, placing a hand to the small of Napoleon’s back. “I will take you home.”

The walk to the car was silent and Napoleon was immediately asleep the second he had buckled himself into the passenger’s seat. Illya let himself chuckle softly before pulling out of the drive and heading to Napoleon’s side of town. Illya enjoyed the silence, enjoyed the sound of Napoleon’s soft, shallow breaths as he fell back into sleep. A part of him foolishly wished that every morning and afternoon could be this way, with Napoleon waking up beside him in the night, with Napoleon falling asleep beside him in the morning. Illya’s mind flashed back to their conversation that early morning, Napoleon’s hand in his and the understanding on his face. That was devotion, Illya thought, a terrifying amount of devotion to have between friends. He was hesitant to ask Napoleon about it, if he meant all of what was said, the truth too daunting for Illya to wrap his mind around.

Illya pulled himself out of his thoughts as he pulled up in front of Napoleon’s small home. He parked and then leaned over, shaking Napoleon awake where he was slumped over, almost against Illya’s shoulder. Napoleon’s eyes fluttered open as he awoke, and Illya had a moment where all he could think was that Napoleon would make one beautiful Sleeping Beauty before Napoleon smiled up at him. It made Illya’s mouth go dry, his heart hammering in his throat as the other boy looked at him with such happiness and content.

“Thanks,” Napoleon practically whispered, his voice was so low. Low and gravelly, and Illya felt his stomach contort again.

“No problem,” Illya answered, voice just as low.

Napoleon started to sit up, staying close to Illya the whole time he straightened his body out. He was so close Illya could swear he could count Napoleon’s eyelashes if he wanted to. Illya swallowed hard at their proximity, trying to think of something to say to break the tension. But Napoleon was still looking at him with those happy, sleepy eyes, as if he was still caught in a dream. And wouldn’t that be something, Illya thought, if Napoleon was dreaming of him? Illya was about to comment, not that he knew what he was going to comment on, when Napoleon swayed forward, eyes half closed in a state of mostly-sleep. His lips connected with the corner of Illya’s mouth, slightly wet and chapped.

Illya couldn’t help it. He flinched back so hard he smacked into the driver’s side door, his head banging against the glass of his window. Napoleon’s eyes were wide and awake the next time Illya looked up at him, but Illya could barely think about that. Napoleon had, for all intents and purposes, kissed him. Napoleon had kissed him. Yes, he had been mostly asleep and droopy-eyed, but he had kissed him.

“Uh,” Illya said, realizing just how far he had pushed himself away from Napoleon.

“I – uh sorry,” Napoleon blurted. “I didn’t… I mean. Hah. Hah, my bad, Peril. Half-asleep and such. You – you know it is, yeah?” Napoleon said, the words tumbling from his mouth, to both boys’ horror. “I, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, then? Or something. Um. Thanks for the ride home. Yeah. Bye.” Napoleon was out the door the next thing Illya knew and before Illya could say anything, Napoleon was inside his house, the door slamming shut behind him.

* * *

The ride home was fuzzy and Illya was in a daze. Napoleon had kissed him. That had to mean something good, didn’t it? Or maybe it had been a sleep-deprived mistake and Illya was just projecting his own feelings. That was probably it.

Or maybe Napoleon actually liked him like that. Shit. Illya was probably overthinking it, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. His chest got awfully tight as he pulled into his drive way and made his way into the house. It was just him alone in the large, empty place now. He wanted Napoleon there, ached with it, and wished he had begged him to stay with him for the day. But then maybe the kiss wouldn’t have happened. And then Illya wouldn’t be standing in his doorway overthinking everything. Maybe that would have been better, but the second Illya thought it, he shook his head adamantly. No, not kissing Napoleon wouldn’t have been better. It had to mean something, something good. Napoleon could just be embarrassed. After all, Illya had pulled away as though he had been burned.

What was wrong with him? Why would he yank himself away from Napoleon if that was what he wanted the whole time? How could he? Illya berated himself as he washed the dishes from last night, mulled his stupidity over as he washed his and Napoleon’s laundry, cursed himself in every language he knew as he dusted and tidied up, and finally groaned to himself at his idiocy as he put their laundry in the dryer. He had been thinking about it for hours. What was wrong with him?

Illya ran his fingers through his hair, trying to settle his thoughts. What did he know? Napoleon had kissed him: check. He had pulled away from Napoleon: check. Napoleon had tried to laugh it off and had gone running into his house with his tail between his legs: check. Illya spent the whole day freaking out about it: check, check, and check.

So. A few things could be happening on Napoleon’s end. He could be regretting it or he could be berating himself for being stupid enough to kiss Illya because Illya’s moving back could have been interpreted as a rejection. And if _that_ was the case, did that mean Illy had lost his chance of being with Napoleon?

“Ugh,” he mumbled to himself, folding dry laundry. He pulled Napoleon’s shirt from the dryer and instinctively pressed it to his nose, trying to smell the other boy on it. All he could smell was his own detergent and dryer sheets, both the same scent so Illya could avoid the headache of mixing scents. He froze and pulled away from the shirt as he realized what he was doing. Disgusted with his love-sickness, he dropped the shirt into the pile of clean clothes he had already pulled from the laundry. He was being ridiculous. But then, images of Napoleon soft and sleep-rumpled in his bed that morning popped into Illya’s mind and they wouldn’t leave. His chest got tight again, some of the anxiety melting away into an easier to ignore buzz in his abdomen. Napoleon was wonderful and good.

But Illya didn’t deserve good things, did he?

“There is no way,” Illya murmured to himself. There was no way Napoleon was actually into him then. He had been tired and had thought it was someone else. Or something. Illya shook his head. Napoleon was just a good friend, and just because Illya was falling ass over tits for him didn’t mean that he should be taking advantage of Napoleon’s generosity and care. If he did that, he might lose it, and then where would he be? Right where he started – friendless and alone, as Gaby would no doubt choose family over him. Not that he would ever blame her.

The negativity he was putting himself through was exhausting, and Illya just wanted to eat something and lie down. By the time he had folded and put away all of the laundry, it was almost eight in the evening. He was sure he shouldn’t be tired seeing as they had slept in until almost noon, but then again, he had been awake for most of the night. He deserved to go to bed early.

Illya made something quick to eat and then took a perfunctory shower, pressing his forehead to the shower tile while trying to take deep breaths. One of his doctors had recommended the exercise once, when he had begun to hyperventilate, almost inducing a panic attack. He counted to three as he inhaled, held his breath for a count of three, and then let out the breath for three seconds before repeating himself. He did it three times and then washed his body and hair, trying to keep his breathing calm and regulated. He tried in vain to put thoughts of Napoleon aside, but he just couldn’t. Illya angrily shut off the water and flung open the shower curtain. He dried himself off with harsh strokes of his towel and brushed his teeth so hard his gums bled. Fuck all of this, he thought to himself.

Still in a strop, he flung his room door open and changed into whatever sleeping clothes he saw first before flinging himself into bed. He threw a shoe at his door to slam it closed and then roughly buried himself under his covers, still angry. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just stop feeling this way for five seconds? He couldn’t remember a time when he _didn’t_ feel that tightness in his stomach and chest, when he didn’t want to scream. Sleep was a brief respite and just when he thought he had rid himself of the horrible feeling, he would wake up and there it would be, heading in his torso like a rock weighing him down, as if it had never left.

Illya squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to cry. If he did that, it could escalate, and from there…

“Eins, zwei, drei,” he mumbled to himself, breathing in. He held his breath, counting in his head: _one, two, three._ He let out his breath counting to himself: один, два, три. Fuck, he just wanted to pass out. He had his Ativan in his nightstand and he knew if he took a whole tablet, it was very likely that he would knocked out. And yet… No. No, he didn’t need the help, he didn’t need it.

Illya bit his lip so hard he tasted blood and wished he would fall asleep.

* * *

Illya woke to a pinging from his phone. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. It was almost ten. With a roll of his eyes, he swiped his screen and looked at the text from Gaby. She was asking him over for brunch. He scratched his head and laid back, wincing when he licked his lips and his lower one stung. He prodded it and winced some more; he must have been more rough with himself last night than he had realized. He probably looked like he had gotten punched. He sighed to himself. Things could be worse.

Illya’s phone started to vibrate, and then it started to ring horribly loud, shrieking into the empty house as though it had been personally offended by the silence. Illya jumped, his heart in his throat at the suddenness, and answered the call. HE held back the sneer just in case it was Oleg.

It wasn’t.

“Oh, he wakes!” Gaby crowed into his ear. Illya groaned.

“Unnecessary Chop Shop,” he mumbled as he flipped onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillows. He bit back the wince that came with smashing his lip into the fabric and fluff.

“You did not answer me,” she responded, and Illya could just imagine her shrug of indifference. “So, are you coming or not?” The tone of her voice suggested that he should be coming. Illya sighed, wondering if he could weasel his way out.  
“Maybe?” he hazarded.

“That is not a choice Illya. It was a yes or no question,” came the icy response.

No, no getting out of it then. “Yes,” he moaned instead. “Ja, Да. Happy?” He hauled himself out of bed, swinging his legs to the side.

“Who are you on the phone with?” a familiar voice in the background said.

“Illya,” Gaby replied. Illya’s heart jumped back into his throat. He was wondering if that was its new favorite place to be.

“Napoleon is there?” he asked carefully.

“ _Illya’s_ coming?” Napoleon yelped. Actually _yelped_. Illya tried not to let it hurt, but it did. He had been right. Napoleon regretted it, hadn’t meant it like that. “ _Gaby_.”

“My house,” she snapped and Napoleon fell silent. “Get over here so we can eat then, sleepyhead.” With that, she hung up. Illya sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone. He sighed and let his head fall into his hands, feeling sorry for himself for a minute before groaning and getting up. She was expecting him and he had learned it was never a good thing to keep Gaby Teller waiting.

* * *

Waverly let Illya into the house when he got there, giving him a charming smile and nodding upstairs where Gaby and Napoleon presumably were. He laughed and told Illya to go on up as he was still fixing up brunch. It figured that Gaby would call him over early. He rolled his eyes and nodded to his friend’s foster father and then headed up the stairs. Illya’s confidence all but evaporated as he neared the top of the stairs and turned down the left hall where Gaby’s room was. He could hear voices, one slightly more raised than the other and getting more and more hysterical as he got closer. Illya stopped right outside the door, trying to summon the courage to open it when he heard his name and any courage he had been mustering completely shriveled up inside him and dried out.

“…pletely fucked up, Gaby,” Napoleon screetched.

“If I have to tell you one more time to lower your voice…” Gaby threatened. That seemed to do the trick. Napoleon was silent. “Now. How did you fuck up this time?”

“I’ll have you know I resent that,” Napoleon commented.

“Good,” Gaby responded. “Stop trying to dodge the question. What did you do?”

Napoleon took a deep breath and Illya pressed himself up against the door. “I may have kissed our giant Russian friend.” The room was silent and Illya could hardly breathe. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Gaby said, and Illya could hear the skepticism in her voice. “How does one ‘maybe’ kiss someone?”

“I was going for his cheek. He moved a bit. I kissed him on the corner of his mouth,” Napoleon explained, sounding like he was trying not to scream again. He voice came out strangled.

“How is that fucking up?”

“ _I shouldn’t have kissed him!_ ” Napoleon snapped and so did Illya’s heart. It felt almost like he had been smacked in the face, but Illya swallowed hard and was determined to listen until he got a reason why. And if Napoleon didn’t give one, he would have to confront the other boy until he did.

“Tone,” Gaby said, steel in her voice. Napoleon cleared his throat. “Explain. And none of that bullshit American lying and beating around the bush.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed him because he’s… he may not be ready. He may not even like boys,” Napoleon said, still sounding strangled. But Illya felt a rush of giddiness burst through him. That was why? He could fix that easy. It seemed that Gaby also thought it was easy to fix as she started to laugh. “ _Gabrielle_ ,” Napoleon hissed.

“He likes boys,” she giggled. “Relax.”

“Well, he may not like me. He pulled away as though I had… burned him. Or taken something valuable from him. Like I was evil, whatever.”

“Dramatic much?” Gaby asked and Illya had to agree, though he had moved back quite fast. “Napoleon?” Gaby said now and Illya started to listen again. Gaby sounded worried and Napoleon was oddly silent. “Oh Napoleon…”

“It’s fine,” Napoleon muttered, voice shaky, nose stuffy. Oh goodness, was he… crying? “It’s fine. I’m the idiot here, not him. We had a perfectly fine night, bonding and closeness and he… was perfect. Just perfect. And I made the mistake, I ruined our friendship.”

“I doubt your friendship is ruined,” Gaby said, much more sympathetic now than she had been before. “You really-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Napoleon said, cutting her off. “I do. Leave it. Ugh, I’m a mess. And this tie is _Dolce_.”

“You’re really worried about the tie?” she said, unimpressed.

“No,” Napoleon admitted in a small voice. “But if I pretend to be, maybe I’ll stop feeling like this.”

“That’s not how love works,” Gaby commented and Illya’s heart was back in his throat, hanging out and making it hard for him to swallow or breathe.

“Shut. Up,” Napoleon grit out. “Please.”

“It’s the truth, Cowboy,” she teased, sounding far too please with herself.

“Don’t call me that,” Napoleon replied coolly. Illya needed them both to stop before he lost his mind. Now was his chance.

“Yes,” Illya said, opening the door and taking a step in. “Only I call him that.” He had to admit, the looks on their faces were quite worth the wait. Gaby’s eyes were wide and she had a giddy smile on her face, her eyes flicking from him to Napoleon and back again. Napoleon looked white as a sheet with fear, his cheeks blotchy and his eyes red and watery. He composed himself quickly though. Not that Illya was surprised, that was just how Napoleon was. He cleared his throat and wiped at his face in futility.

“There you have it Gaby, only he calls me that,” Napoleon said with a forced laugh. “When did you get here Peril?”

“Just a minute ago,” Illya lied, walking in the rest of the way. He frowned. He would have been surprised had he actually just walked in a minute ago and come upon a teary eyed Napoleon. “What is wrong?” He crowded up against Napoleon, taking his face in his hands and searching him for injury. Maybe he was going a bit to far to sell the lie, but he could barely help himself. Napoleon thought he didn’t like him in that way? Napoleon actually had wanted to kiss him? Napoleon wanted him. Illya didn’t know what to think. And Gaby, she had mentioned love and Napoleon hadn’t contested her…

“Uh, Peril?” Napoleon asked, that voice all strangled again. Illya was beginning to like the sound of it. “Not that I don’t appreciate you showing you care when you can occasionally be as emotive as a marble statue, but… what exactly are you doing?”

“You are crying, yes? I am finding out why,” Illya said wiping away some stray tears with his thumbs. He didn’t miss how Napoleon instinctively swayed into his space at the touch. How could he have missed this all along? He sighed, letting go.

“You think Gaby hit me?”

“She probably could,” Illya admitted.

“I _definitely_ could,” Gaby corrected, somehow already by her bedroom door. “I’m going to see how Waverly is doing with brunch. Behave you two,” she said with a wave as she walked out, shutting the door behind her. In front of him, Napoleon swallowed hard.

“Uh, she didn’t, Peril,” Napoleon said as he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a full step backwards away from Illya.

“Who do I punch?” Illya asked.

“Pardon?” Napoleon asked.

“Who. Do I. Punch?” Illya repeated, making a show of cracking his knuckles. “I punch who hurt you,” Illya said, as though it made all the sense in the world.

“Relax, Peril,” Napoleon said with a delighted laugh. His eyes sparkled as he realized what Illya was implying, that he would hit anyone who had hurt Napoleon. He was being so obvious, how could Napoleon not realize? “I’m fine.” Illya scrutinized him, unconvinced. He knew Napoleon wasn’t alright. He would have known even if he had not heard.  “Um, about yesterday…?” Napoleon started. Illya felt his stomach tangle. No, he needed time to process, to make a plan of how to tackle this, maybe talk to Gaby. So Illya took a deep breath and tried not to hate himself too much for what he was about to say.

“What about yesterday?” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. Napoleon would think he was definitely rejected now, but Illya needed time. He really did. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to see the sparkled snuffed out of Napoleon’s eyes as he realized what Illya had done, unaware of Illya’s reasons. Napoleon swallowed past the hurt and barked out a harsh laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The smile he pasted on was so forced, but he was trying so hard, Illya knew.

“Never mind, Peril. Don’t worry about it,” Napoleon said, shaking his head. “C’mon. I’m sure Waverly has finished brunch by now.”

“Are you sure… you are… alright?” Illya asked, swallowing against the words that were fighting to come out, to tell Napoleon just what he thought, what he felt. But he grit his teeth and bore it.

“Yeah, yes. _Yes_ ,” Napoleon said, the last time with finality. He heaved such a heavy, weary sigh. Illya felt it to his bones. “I am perfectly fine.” 

* * *

Things went back to normal, for the most part. Napoleon didn’t bring up the kiss and neither did Illya, who was still trying to sort it out in his head, that Napoleon could feel the same for him. Self-loathing, he realized, was really getting in the way of things here. He was sometimes too deep in his head and he really needed to get out of it, accept that other people could find him desirable even if he didn’t see himself that way. But it was so damn hard. It didn’t help that Oleg came home at the start of the next week, grumpy and negative as usual. He commented harshly on Illya’s quiet, reflective mood.

“You had better not be planning another suicidal stunt,” he snarled. Illya froze, horrified at the tears that had sprung into his eyes. He left the dinner table without saying a word, stomping up the stairs as he shook all over, and slammed his room door shut. He let out a yell that was threatening to consume him, his vision blurred with tears as his fist connected with the wall several times. He was shaking still, unable to take an actual deep breath. Everything was getting hazy and he couldn’t feel his face, whether from lack of oxygen or something else, he didn’t know.

Illya couldn’t think, could only fall to his knees and collapse onto his side as it started and refused to stop. He was gasping for air and trying not to be too loud with his whimpering. His fist found its way to his mouth and he bit down, pitiful sounds coming out around it. He tasted blood but couldn’t feel anything, a spike of fear going through him at that, and snowballing into full-blown terror.

When he next opened his eyes, he had no idea how long it had been. His head ached, his throat hurt, his fist stung, and all of his joints were stiff. Illya was still on the floor. He hurled himself to his feet and fell on his bed, curling up on his side and taking deep breaths, trying not to start up again. All he had to do was not think about what Oleg had said, but that was easier said than done. He turned his mind to other things, trying to recover and failing. He just wanted a shower, a cup of tea, and to curl up with Napoleon, who he knew wouldn’t judge him for his break down.

Oh, Napoleon. How could Illya handle Napoleon when he couldn’t even handle himself?

* * *

Napoleon looked at him oddly when he came in looking haggard the next day. Gaby wasn’t in class yet, so the boys sat near each other in the back of history. Illya had his hand cradled against his chest and wiped his free hand down his face in an attempt to get rid of his exhaustion and wake himself up. It didn’t work.

“What happened?” Napoleon asked, startling Illya out of his daze. He followed Napoleon’s line of sight to his injured hand. The skin had started bruising purple and black from punching the wall. He had been lucky not to break anything, his bones or the plaster. There were scabbed over, red bite marks in the skin under his thumb as well from his biting. He could definitely feel the throbbing pain now.

“Bad night,” Illya grunted, shoving his bandaged hand into his pocket.

“Can I see?” Napoleon whispered. Illya looked at him and didn’t find pity in his eyes, just concern. He reluctantly placed his hurt hand in Napoleon’s. The boy’s fingers were warm and gentle, prodding the swollen areas to check for broken bones, making sure the bandages didn’t need to be changed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

A sigh. “Illya…” He trailed off. “Okay. If you need me though, Peril. I’ve got your back.” Napoleon set his jaw and nodded to Illya. He squeezed his hand gently and placed it back in Illya’s lap, a small sigh escaping his lips, this one more of regret. He wants to keep holding my hand, Illya thought to himself, the realization threatening to bring a smile to his face. He still felt terrible, but it was somewhat comforting to know that Napoleon was in his corner.

“Gaby?” Napoleon said in confusion, looking behind Illya. Illya turned and frowned. Gaby’s eyes were red as she sat down at the desk next to him, tears still drying on her cheeks. He was getting quite tired of his best friends being upset to the point of tears.

“What has happened?” Illya said, placing a large hand on her shoulder. She suddenly seemed so small.

“Rudi,” she whispered and Illya felt sick to his stomach.

“Not this again,” Napoleon snarled beside him and Illya felt himself get hard at the tone of his voice. “What did he do?” Gaby shook her head and tried to steady herself with a deep breath. Illya simply rubbed her shoulder, staying quiet. If he tried to speak, he had a bad feeling he would either be as angry as Napoleon, or else say something embarrassing about the state of himself in his pants _because of_ Napoleon.

“He’s been calling me. He has my number and I don’t know…” Her voice shook. Rudi Teller, her father’s brother, had lost contact with Gaby after her parents had died. She had been adopted by Schmidt, a nice mechanic in Germany before he too had died, leaving her alone. Waverly had taken her in on a trip to Germany soon after that and then had moved them to the US when he was offered a job. Rudi, upon learning of her inheritance which would be granted to her on her eighteenth birthday, had tried to fight for custody when she was twelve. He had failed. It seemed he was trying again.

“It’s almost my birthday,” Gaby said, her voice so sad and dejected. Illya felt a spark of anger in him. No one had the right to make anyone, never mind his best friend, fear one of the biggest, most important milestones in their life. It was wrong and Illya wanted so badly to hit something in that moment. Oleg would probably disapprove, tell him that if he wanted to hit something so bad, he had might as well do it for a better cause than to defend some random, German girl, but then again, Oleg had never understood the concept of friends very well. Not that Illya thought that was a viable excuse.

“He can’t touch you,” Napoleon said, voice dripping with confidence. “Not only are you legally adopted by Uncle Alex, but if he tries to come near you, well.” Napoleon cracked his knuckles, much like Illya had done over the weekend. “Peril and I will just have to take care of it, won’t we Peril?”

“Indeed,” Illya said, his voice sounding horribly cold and deadly, even to himself. But then Napoleon was patting him on the shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and Illya’s insides felt like goo. He was glad to be sitting, because if he had been standing, his knees would have buckled, they had gone so weak. One look at Gaby and Illya knew her mood had improved, just by the knowing smile on her face as she looked at the two of them. Illya wondered what Napoleon’s face looked like at that moment. He hoped Napoleon’s expression was something good.

“You have to tell Uncle Alex, by the way,” Napoleon added, finally letting go. Illya tried to keep the disappointment off of his face, but he had a feeling Gaby saw it anyway, if her sly smile and wink were anything to go by.

“I’ll tell him,” she promised, nudging Illya’s shoulder with her own.

“You call him Uncle Alex?” Illya asked Napoleon, trying to change the subject and get Gaby to leave him alone.

“Well, that is his name. Alexander Waverly, I mean. And he is my mother’s brother. So,” Napoleon said, sounding a bit awkward and stilted himself. Napoleon cleared his throat. “Anyway…”

“Yes…”

“You two want to come over today? Saunders and my mother will be out for the night at an event where my mother works. I’d appreciate the company.” When Illya turned to look at Napoleon, he had that charming smile stretched across his face. It made Illya’s heart beat a bit faster.

“I can come,” Illya said, formulating a plan to get it approved by Oleg. He could always lie and say he was going to tutor Napoleon. As it was, they probably should be meeting sometime this week, anyway.

“Mmm, sorry. I have to tell Waverly about Uncle Rudi,” Gaby said, seeing the opportunity to turn her nightmare into a good excuse. Illya’s head snapped over to her and he glared. She shrugged, unbothered and, by now, immune to the look. It would look suspicious now if Illya took back his agreement to go. He was stuck with Napoleon alone. When he looked back at Napoleon, he found a similar look of awkwardness on his face. It would also seem suspicious if Napoleon suddenly took back the invitation. But Napoleon was always fast on his feet, and the look was gone soon after Illya had seen it. The other boy smiled wide and unthinkingly placed a hand on the back of Illya’s thick neck, squeezing it.

“Well, looks like it’s a boy’s night in then, huh Peril?” Napoleon said with a grin. It was genuine, if not nervous. Illya could hardly think with Napoleon’s skin touching his so intimately. Napoleon must have noticed, because he quickly let go and cleared his throat as their teacher walked in, immediately writing something illegible on the board. “Tonight it is then.”

“Yes,” Illya agreed, taking out his notebook. “Tonight it is.”

* * *

Illya should have known better.

He had been so easily triggered lately and he should have known better. Oleg was never one to soften things, to think before he spoke. He was never one to care if what he was doing to Illya was damaging, as long as it served a purpose and made Illya stronger. And now…

It had started out fine. He had informed Oleg that he had a tutoring session with one of his classmates in the evening and was going to be out a bit late, but that it was all purely academic. Of course, then Oleg had asked who it was, if Oleg knew him. And all Illya had been able to think or say was that it was Gaby’s cousin, didn’t he remember Gaby, before he remembered that Oleg wasn’t too please about his constant presence around her, his lack of focus lately that he had mistakenly pinned on the girl. Oleg had eyes and ears everywhere, knew the town inside out and in that moment, Illya was almost positive he was some kind of spy and he wasn’t on the good side.

“Вы видите ее? Не ври!” _You’re going to see her,_ he had said. And if he had been, would that have been so bad? Sure the Russians had been against the Germans in the war, but so had the Americans. And anyway, that was decades ago. Almost a century. Was his uncle still so lost in the past?

“Нет, я обещаю,” _No, I promise,_ Illya had yelped, surprised at the accusation. Oleg had been in a foul mood since his return from that business trip. Something must have been going wrong or not in his favor. Illya should have known, he should have known better, he was so stupid.

“ Или...” _Or…_ Oleg trailed off and it was more terrifying than if he had said anything else. His gaze fell to Illya’s injured hand and Illya immediately shoved it into one of his pockets, too afraid to even wince at the pain. “Вы поранить себя снова!” _You’re hurting yourself again!_ Not said in concern or sadness, but in disgust, in absolute disgust and disappointment. “бессильный.” _Weak, useless._ “Так же, как твой отец.” _Just like your father._

And there, that was the worst insult. Because Illya knew exactly what his uncle thought of his father. What Oleg thought of his younger brother. He thought Illya’s father was a coward, a traitor, a useless waste of space that deserved to die. Which meant that he thought Illya deserved to die. Illya deserved to die. _And dear God_ , Illya thought to himself as Oleg kept yelling in a fit of rage, in that ill temper that he could never get rid, no matter how long he had been raising Illya. _Dear God why didn’t I succeed the last time? Why didn’t I actually die? Why didn’t I stay dead? Why?_

Illya didn’t remember how he got out of the house, just that he had and that he was walking, walking and trying not to scream, dazed and in a fugue state where he could hardly remember who he was or where he was going, where all he could feel was his backpack strapped tightly to his back, a book digging into his spine and oh, how he wished that book could jest sever it, cut through his bones and put him out of his misery. What was the point, what was the point, what was the god-damned point if he couldn’t even freely leave his house, if he couldn’t see the people that made him feel good about himself, if his uncle thought he was a waste of space and should have succeeded in ending himself?

“Peril, you’re late. What – Illya? My god, Illya what happened? Talk to me.”Illya looked up and there was Napoleon, standing in his doorway in nothing but a pair of jeans and a zip-up sweater, his feet bare on the hardwood floor of the house. Had he walked all the way here on his own? That was a long walk. What was the time? Why was he here? Why was he _here?_ “Illya? I think you should sit down – you’re shaking.”

And he was. Illya was shaking so bad he couldn’t keep his hands out flat in front of him. Napoleon stepped back and let him come inside the house and Illya practically floated in, on the edge of something dark and horrible and he was going to fall, oh goodness he was going to fall right into that abyss wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?

  
“Illya, please say something. I’m not one to usually be spooked, but for once, you’re succeeding,” Napoleon said somewhere behind him. The door was shut wasn’t it? Napoleon was far back enough that he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire of Illya’s descent, would he? Illya dropped his bag to the ground and collapsed onto the couch nearest to him, his legs going weak as he started to hyperventilate, as he tried to breathe, as he tried to count to three and couldn’t even make it past one. Oleg thought he should be dead and Oleg was right, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he, wasn’t he, wasn’t he, wasn’t he…

“Wasn’t he _what_ Illya?” Napoleon asked. “Are you… why are you shaking? You’re going to hyperventilate, take a deep breath. Peril…” The whimpering started. Oh no, Illya thought, feeling vaguely detached from himself. Now Napoleon would see who he really was, what he was actually dealing with. “Oh fuck,” Illya heard and then that was it. His chest was too tight and he couldn’t breathe, felt like he was a fish out of water, floundering about, and there was the tingling in his extremities, then the numbness and oh fuck, fuck, fuck, he was _screaming_.

“He sounds like he’s dying!” Napoleon screamed in the background. Distantly, Illya wondered if he was on the phone, who he had called, and what they were telling him. He hoped he would pass out soon, or die. Dying seemed so quiet, so peaceful compared to the thrashing of his body and the absolute terror that was reverberating in his skull. Illya started to scratch at himself, unable to feel it, unable to stop it, a tick that had formed whenever he was afraid and had to feel, had to make sure he was alive and around and present, god he just wasn’t _present_ , why couldn’t he _feel_ anything? Why couldn’t he breathe?

All that went through the conscious part of his mind was _no_ and _Oleg wants me dead_ and _I should have tried harder, I need to try harder next time_. He hated himself, hated that this was what he boiled down to, a quivering lump of useless flesh that was just taking up space, wasting space in the world when people like Gaby and Napoleon existed as well and could have been using his space for better things.

“Illya, Illya, open your mouth. It’s Napoleon just, open your mouth, please, please,” Illya heard and then something was touching him and he flinched so hard and yelled as loud as he could because _no, no, no, no, no_. No, he couldn’t be touched, who was it, what if they hurt him, what if _he_ hurt _them?_ “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Just…” Something was in his mouth, open from screaming, maybe. Or crying. There were tears and snot everywhere, slick on his nose and cheeks and running into his mouth. He closed his mouth and started to gag on something, swallowing it down dry where he felt it get stuck in his throat before he fought past it and swallowed it down.

It didn’t matter. It just didn’t matter anymore, did it?

It was a blur, mostly after that, and what seemed like an eternity later, he started to slow down, unable to struggle. There was a constant buzzing in his ear, things he couldn’t hear being said, but he knew were being said. It was soothing, a soft cadence that felt like what home must be like. His eyes started to droop and his limbs felt far to heavy and he stopped screaming, stopped yelling, went still as an overpowering wave of medicated calm washed over him, dragging him down, down, _down_ …

* * *

When he opened his eyes, he was on a bed. A familiar bed. Napoleon’s bed.

Speaking of, the other boy was sitting at his desk, scrawling something down and checking it against another paper. He was doing calculus, alone. Illya wanted to laugh for joy. Napoleon was actually trying to do his homework. It was a miracle.

“That… that is a sight to see,” he managed to say, his voice weak and throat sore. Napoleon jumped in his seat, his face lighting up at the sight of Illya. Illya felt terrible and not like he deserved the look at all. His head was hurting more than any other episode before this, his face and arms stung where he had scratched at himself, his cheeks were caked with dried snot, spit and tears, and he was so, so tired.

“You’ve been out for a while there, Peril,” Napoleon said, scooting his chair over to the bed. “My parents are home. They’re in bed and Saunders checked on you but…” Illya felt his face heat with shame. Someone other than Napoleon had seem him like this? Disgraceful. “He wanted to make sure you were alright. The Ativan sure worked.”

Ativan. That was what it was. The chalky pill in his mouth, the dryness as it was stuck in his throat, the relief when it finally went down. A part of him knew all along that’s what it was. Napoleon must have gone through his bag where Illya always kept it.

“I called Gaby,” Napoleon said by way of explanation. “She told me about it, where you kept it.” He stopped. “You don’t… you don’t have to tell me, but…” He rubbed his eyes. “How long?” How long had he been like this? Too long, Illya wanted to say.

“Long enough,” he went with instead.

“Oleg knows,” Napoleon said.

“Oleg…” Illya shook his head.

“One day,” Napoleon said with deadly calm. “I’m going to see him walking by. I’ll be in my car. I’ll run over him. Then I’ll back up over his body to make sure he stays down.” He looked back at Illya. “One day.”

Illya wanted to be flattered, wanted to smile and tell him thank you, to do something, but he was too exhausted. Napoleon seemed to understand and instead of continuing, he helped Illya sit up and got out a First Aid kit. He cleaned Illya up, washing his face, cleaning the scratches, putting ointment and gauze over them, just for the night so they could heal a bit with the antibiotic. He gave Illya a change of clothes and then made sure he was comfortable in the bed before changing himself and getting in beside him.

“Is this alright?” Napoleon asked. Illya simply nodded. He needed the closeness, felt so much better with someone he trusted right next to him. Napoleon scooted closer and pressed his head to Illya’s. “What am I gonna do with you Peril?” he murmured. Illya felt tears spring to his eyes and he shook his head. “Hey, it’s fine. We’ll take care of it in the morning, alright?” Illya was fine with that.

* * *

He woke up alone, but he heard Napoleon puttering around downstairs. It was almost noon when Napoleon checked the phone that Napoleon had left on the bedside table. It seemed neither of them was going to school. That was fine by him.

He checked himself in the mirror, wincing at how thoroughly terrible he looked. God, but he needed a shower and maybe a week of sleep with Napoleon tucked up to his side the whole time. He poked his face, gargled some water, and then headed downstairs to face the music. At least the Ativan had made sure he got a good night’s sleep. That much was on his side.

Napoleon was just setting pancakes on the table when Illya walked in. He hovered by the kitchen entrance and waited, unsure of what to do. But Napoleon motioned to the table and Illya sat down, fiddling with his fork. What would happen now? Napoleon had said they would take care of it in the morning, but it was morning now and Illya had a feeling that pancakes weren’t going to solve anything but the problem of breakfast.

“Peril?” Illya looked up at Napoleon. “Gaby gave me this name.” He pushed a sheet of notepad paper across the table and Illya looked down. The name of that therapist his doctor recommended to him. He knew he shouldn’t have told Gaby, but suddenly he was so glad he did. He needed help and he wasn’t strong enough to do it on his own. If these two people chose for themselves to help him, who was he to reject their help? “I think that we should go see her.”

Illya’s head snapped up. “We?” he echoed.

Napoleon nodded, a smirk coming to his lips. He was far too pleased. “What, you didn’t think I’d just leave you to do this on your own, did you Peril?” He gave a fake gasp and placed his hands on his chest, right over his heart, as though he had been shot. “I’m wounded, Peril, fatally wounded.” He chuckled and Illya suddenly thought that everything was going to be alright as long as Napoleon kept laughing like that. “But in all seriousness Illya, yes. We. I’ll go with you.” Napoleon stopped now, looking shy. “That is, if you want me there.”

“I always want you there,” Illya blurted. He felt his face heat but the look of genuine surprise on Napoleon’s face was worth it.

“Then we’ll make an appointment. And we’ll go.” Napoleon smiled warmly and placed a hand over Illya’s, squeezing gently. “C’mon. Eat up. We have a long day of doing nothing ahead of us. You’ve got to keep your strength up for it. There will be no falling behind, or else I’ll have to carry you, and I don’t think I’m big enough for that.”

For the first time in what felt like far too long, Illya genuinely smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian was shitty Googling, so if anyone wants to help, that would be cool. What I want them to say is in italics next to the Cyrillic. 
> 
> PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES FRIENDS. This was hard for me to write and I haven't had an episode in a while. Again, this is all based on what happens to me; others can experience panic and mood disorders differently and they are still totally valid and real. So take care, friends. Take such care. Self care is so important and Illya really needs to learn about that. Maybe his friends can help. I sure fucking hope so.


	5. I Keep Telling Myself I'm Not The Desperate Type

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving forward and healing. Faceless, but helpful, therapists doing their Faceless, Helpful thing. Best friends that want to date you being Best Friends that want to date you. Napoleon is literally playing the "I respect you and our friendship so I'm not going to tell you that I'd date the hell out of you if you asked" game. 
> 
> (Also Napoleon uses rose-scented shampoo and Illya's is probs like, that cedar scent from Old Spice? Who knew?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so fucking sorry this took me forever. But the inspiration has been fleeting. Then I read this one fic of them and I died on the inside at all the possibilities and so I have started another Napollya fic. If you are into alpha/omega dynamics and such, stay tuned. If not, I hope you enjoy this fic regardless of whatever else I write. 
> 
> That being said, a few disclaimers! There's a lot of therapy talk in this chapter. I am only pulling from my conversations with my therapist. Not all the strategies I talk about here are used for everyone. Not all people have relationships like this with their therapists, and that's totally okay! CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) is used differently for different people and that is totally normal. Please remember this as you read through this chapter and take care of yourself if you are feeling triggered by anything. If you need anything extra tagged, please let me know. 
> 
> In addition, I've been getting wonderful messages from people about this fic and how it has impacted them. Many can identify with Illya and that makes me so happy, because that was the whole point. I am really glad that this is here for you all who feel this way and I am touched that you would share your stories with me. I appreciate that and I hope the rest of the fic doesn't disappoint you. Really, I do. That being said, this is a happy-ish chapter for you all as a big thank you for being such strong and brave individuals. I wish you all the best of luck and the strength to do what you have to do to take care of yourselves, because I know how hard it can be and how much some of us struggle. But everyone deserves good things. 
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

Oleg didn’t ask where Illya had gone that night they fought and Illya didn’t tell him. He had returned the next night, silent and wary of his uncle, but the man had not sought him out and Illya didn’t go looking for trouble himself. Oleg left it alone. Illya thanked whoever was watching for small mercies.

 “How’d it go?” Napoleon asked as Illya got into the boy’s car. He was picking Illya up from his therapy appointment. It had taken a few days to get everything settled after he had an episode at Napoleon’s house, but he and Napoleon had managed to work things out with his doctor and now, his therapist. It was the fourth time Illya had been to her and he was starting to open up, to speak about things other than how his medication was going and what other exercises he could use to help with the panic. She had asked about Napoleon today and for the first time since they started meeting, Illya had gotten tongue tied and flustered, no answer in sight

“He’s your emergency contact instead of your parents. Can we talk about that?”

And Illya had talked and talked, the words spilling out to someone who wouldn’t judge him, who wouldn’t tell him he had to suck it up. There was a lot of talk about moving out and strategies to get around Oleg once he told her that parents had passed years before in Russia. He had cried and stopped speaking toward the end, needing a moment to get past the feeling that if he showed weakness he would be rejected. But she had understood and let him take his time and that, more than anything else, had let him know he and Napoleon had made the right choice, a choice he would not have been able to make without Napoleon himself.

Illya was shaken out of his thoughts by Napoleon repeating his question. He looked up at the other boy, Napoleon’s gaze trained on the road as he drove them back to his house. Illya sighed. “Was fine.” Napoleon didn’t need to know about the tears and the struggle to trust someone he didn’t know as well as he wanted to. But Illya wanted to get better and he knew that to do that, he really had to try with his therapist. It was good that she was so open about things, only pressed on important subjects and respected that it was a slow process to work through it. He’d open up to her more. Eventually.

“Just fine?” Napoleon asked, his voice tinged with worry. “If it’s not working out, you have to let me know so we can find you someone else. You should be picky about who your therapist is. If you’re not comfortable with her yet, that’s one thing. But if you’re not meshing, that’s another, and that’s okay!” Napoleon rambled. Illya held back his smile as best as he could and put a hand on Napoleon’s arm. It shut Napoleon right up, just as Illya knew it would.

“She is good person. We get along. I am… just exhausted. Emotionally. Was hard day today,” Illya explained. He did appreciate Napoleon’s concern though.

“Oh,” Napoleon said, voice a bit hushed. “Alright. Home then?”

“Yes. I will take nap, I think,” Illya said, leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes.

“Uh, Peril?”

“Yes?”

“If you wanted to hold my hand, you could have just asked,” Napoleon said, a laugh in his voice. Illya opened his eyes and looked at Napoleon, searching for where the comment came from. It was then that he noticed his hand was still on Napoleon’s arm, dangerously close to his wrist. He took his hand back, going slow because he really didn’t want to. But still. Regardless of what they felt for each other, didn’t Illya have to slow down? Then again, it had been a while. He’d been seeing his therapist for a month, once a week, he’d known Napoleon for almost a whole school year, and Illya was still dancing around everything. He wished his therapist hadn’t asked about Napoleon today, but at the same time, he was relieved she had. She had asked him some important questions that she assured him he didn’t have to answer during their session,  but just think about and maybe answer for himself. It was a good strategy, one that seemed to be working well for Illya. She had picked up on that quick. It further proved to Illya that she was a good fit for him.

Still, Illya took his hand back. Maybe not quite yet. Maybe he needed a catalyst. That usually worked for him.

“Hey, Peril,” Napoleon whispered. Illya focused back on him. “I can drive with one hand you know. And I don’t mind.” With that, Napoleon took one hand seamlessly from the wheel and entwined it with one of Illya’s. There was a sad smile on Napoleon’s face that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but Napoleon’s head was held high and his grasp was firm. He was hurting, Illya knew, but was willing to have himself be hurt if it made Illya feel better. What had Illya done to deserve that?

“You don’t need to do something to deserve good things,” his therapist had told him the first time the question had slipped out. It had been one of the first things she had said to him during their first two hour session that had really struck a chord with him. “Next time you ask yourself that, follow up with this: I am human, and I deserve love and affection just like everyone else. Because it’s the truth, isn’t it?” And Illya hadn’t been able to think of one good, rational argument against that.

Illya squeezed Napoleon’s hand and murmured a thank you to which he received an actual smile from the boy. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the feeling, just this once, he told himself. By the time they got to his house, Illya had drifted off, hand still clutching Napoleon’s. Napoleon woke him by gently squeezing his hand where it was held in Napoleon’s own, and calling out his name. Illya was roused and looked up at the other boy blearily through slit eyes. Napoleon probably thought he was still sleeping, and that was why his face was so open, a smile stretching his lips, a tender look about his eyes when they focused on Illya.

“C’mon, Peril,” Napoleon said, a bit louder this time, and Illya swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and fluttered his eyes open. Napoleon schooled his features rather quickly and it reminded Illya of another conversation he had had with his therapist.

“He says… that he has feelings for me,” Illya had told her. “I cannot deal.” A lie, probably.

“Illya,” she had said earlier that day. “Be honest with me. What scares you about it? He’s the one supporting you taking control of your mental health and he’s always there for you when you’re struggling. Do you not have any feelings for him?” she had asked. “Because that would be different. I could understand you being afraid to lead him on.”

“…well… no, I …,” he trailed off. Damnit, but she had a point. He was getting really tired of her making sense all the time, which frustrated him because, why couldn’t he make logical sense on his own? Why did he have to come here for this woman to tell him things he later realized were common sense? She could tell there was some frustration and asked him what it was about, but he had refused to talk for a moment and she had let him. God, he wasn’t used to that. Someone letting him make those decisions for himself.

“I can’t force you to tell me things,” she had said, suddenly. “That’s up to you, Illya. But when you’re ready too, I promise I’ll be here to listen and help you.” Another truth, one he had needed to hear from someone else.

“I do… have feelings for him. My uncle is not alright with this,” he explained haltingly.

"Do you feel safe with your uncle?” she had asked. Illya had just shook his head. “Is it safe to get away from him?” He shook his head again. She nodded to herself, making a note in her writing pad. “Alright. Do you feel safe with Napoleon?” A nod. “Can you safely spend time with him and have him around without repercussions from your uncle?” Another nod. Illya had been sure he could finagle that. “Good. I’d like you to work on that and tell me how it goes during our meeting next week. You trust Napoleon and that’s a very good thing because he wants you to be well. I could see it the first time he brought you here.” She smiled at Illya and something that was tight in his chest loosened. “Illya, can we try something before you leave for the day?”

"What is it?” he had asked warily.

“I would like you to try saying aloud, ‘I trust Napoleon and that’s okay.’ Can you try that for me?”

“Why?” he had asked uneasily.

“Sometimes,” she explained. “We need to hear affirmations of things we are insecure about aloud. This helps affirm whatever we’re insecure about in a positive way. I could say it, but I’m not you. Hearing that things are alright to feel from yourself is one of the most affirming things out there. It might be hard, but it’s definitely worth it. Will you try that for me?”

Illya had sat there for a long while and then sighed. “I… I trust…” He grit his teeth. Why was this so hard?

“Good, good, you’re almost there.”

“I trust… Napoleon,” Illya said. That was… odd.

“And?” she asked, a smile on her lips.

“And… that… it is… okay?” he asked, not meaning to make it a question.

“Is it?” she rebutted, and Illya grit his teeth again at her sly smile. Oh, they were going to get along just fine. He was always up for a challenge.

“Yes,” he said, adamant. “It is okay.”

“Okay,” she said, a triumphant little smile on her face that had Illya grumbling to himself. But he had felt so much better when he had walked out of her office after that just to find Napoleon waiting in his car out front, just like he said he would be. And now they were here, with Napoleon waking him up in front of his house, because Illya trusted Napoleon and that was alright. It wasn’t a sign of weakness, but a strength to let someone in, to be vulnerable and take the risk of getting hurt for something as wonderful as having someone to depend on.

“There are those pretty baby blues,” Napoleon teased. “C’mon, you’re home.”

“Is not home. Is just uncle’s house,” Napoleon grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. When he looked up, Napoleon was staring at him with wide eyes. “What.”

“You look like a vicious bear cub waking up,” Napoleon cooed. Illya rolled his eyes and swatted at his friend. Maybe he could have chosen someone better to trust and fall for.

“Fuck off,” Illya mumbled, yawning. Then he peeked at Napoleon from the corner of his eye. “I am take nap but… you can come in, if you want?” Illya asked, immediately regretting it at the surprise on Napoleon’s face.

“Yes, of course, Peril,” Napoleon said and Illya hated that his heart jolted in surprise as the other boy shut off the car and smiled at him. “I can putter around, if you don’t mind. Work on some homework while you doze.” He winked and Illya smiled, following Napoleon’s lead and getting out of the car. By the time they hit his room, Illya was exhausted all over again. He threw his bag in a corner and collapsed onto his bed, kicking off his shoes. Napoleon shut his door and sat at his desk, setting his bag on the floor. It was only five in the afternoon.  

“You will be alright?” Illya said with a yawn.

“Yep,” Napoleon said. “Don’t you worry.” His smile was so warm that Illya swore he could feel the heat coming off of it. “Sleep tight, Illya. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

* * *

They did it again the next week. And the next. Illya would come home after a therapy session and nap, while Napoleon would do homework until Illya woke up and made them dinner. Napoleon would head home after that and then Oleg would come home shortly after and have nothing to say to Illya. Illya honestly didn’t mind.

His next appointment was on a Friday that they had no school on, so Illya went a bit earlier than usual. His therapist had the blinds to her office open, the spring sunlight streaming in and falling on Illya’s lap where he sat on the couch across from her, strangling a pillow with his nervous hands. She had made them some tea and was settling herself for their two hour long session, humming to herself as she got comfortabe and flipped her notepad to a brand new, clean page. Then she looked up at Illya and smiled. He wondered how she could always look so well when they met.

“How did that stressful test go?”

She usually started with sometime simple like that, something that he had said was bothering him the week before. She would snowball into larger, more serious areas as she went along, but he liked that she didn’t just dive into the hard things, that she built up to them. It gave him time to prepare himself to talk about the things he found so difficult, but he was starting to get the hang of it, starting not to feel guilty about needing to stop, or being unable to address something right then and there. It helped that she was so affirming and supportive as well.

“How’s Napoleon doing?” she said once the first hour had passed. They had been talking about his latest episode and the strategies that had worked as opposed to the ones that hadn’t. Napoleon talking him down had been helpful. He had told her that he suspected anyone talking him down would have worked, as Gaby had done it in the past. She had suggested that maybe it had to be someone he felt comfortable around. After all, she had argued, would he have calmed down if Oleg had been speaking to him? Illya had answered without hesitation: no.

“He is… fine,” Illya said, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get away with such an answer and bracing himself for the follow up questions.

"Alright, what does fine mean?”

“He is healthy. He is in school. We… spend time together. He is fine,” Illya repeated.      

“Does he still show signs of romantically having feelings for you?” she asked.

Illya felt his face heat as he muttered, “Yes.”

“How are you handling that? Does it still make you uncomfortable?” she asked, concern on her face. How was he handling that, anyway? Mostly by avoiding it. And it never made him uncomfortable, per se, just… Hyper-aware. Of him. Of himself. Of their interactions. He mumbled as much, not making eye contact and fiddling with the seams in the pillow on his lap. “Okay. How are you processing the feelings you have for him?” Illya shrugged. “What’s that mean?”

“Means that I am sitting on them and not know what to do,” Illya snapped. He reigned himself in and spoke softly. “I apologize.”

“That’s alright. I appreciate your apology, though. Sore spot, huh?” Illya nodded. “It’s alright to be afraid of those sorts of feeling. How do you react to them? Anything negative?”

“Sometimes…” Illya admitted. “I am afraid I will have panic attack if we address feelings, which… makes me have panic attack…” He trailed off. Well, now that he said it aloud he sounded stupid to himself.            

“That’s common,” she said with sympathy. “Fear of another panic attack, regardless of why you think it may happen, often triggers a panic attack. I’m sorry that has been happening to you. Have you utilized the Ativan?” Illya didn’t answer her. He had been trying not to take it lately. “Illya, I want you to use it when you need it. It’s a tool that you can use to help yourself. Don’t deny yourself some peace of mind. You deserve that.”

“I will… try,” he conceded, and he would. He only had his word these days, and he was for damn sure going to keep it.

“That’s good. I like that attitude. Now, we don’t have much longer left of this session, so can we try some more affirmations?” Illya groaned and she laughed which made him glare at her. What a cruel, tiny lady! How dare she want him to start feeling better? Despite himself, he fought back a smile at that thought. “I know. Your favorite things. Mine, too. But I think they really help.”

“Maybe,” he said, and he allowed himself a tiny smile as hers widened.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable with this one and I have a few others we could try. But I think this one is important, so think about it a bit before you decide whether you want to use it or not.” Illya felt himself get nervous, his hand beginning to shake. He tapped it against his leg, a coping method his therapist actually approved of once he told her it was to stop himself from scratching or hurting someone or himself. “Illya, take in a deep breath for me,” and he did. “One more,” and he did. “Good. Ready?”

“No,” he said but nodded to her to go anyway.

“Okay. Let’s try, ‘I have romantic feelings for Napoleon Solo. They are valid. They are returned. I can choose what I want to do about them and it’s alright if I do nothing.’ Can you think about that?”

Illya grimaced in distaste. Why did she have to choose that above all things? But he understood on some level. He was mostly afraid of doing anything with Napoleon because it might not work out. And if it didn’t work out, would Napoleon leave him, stop being his friend, stop supporting him? The last time he had said this to his therapist, she had asked him to think about that argument along with the fact that he trusted Napoleon. Having trust in someone meant that you gave them the benefit of the doubt when it came to those things. If he trusted Napoleon, then wasn’t it doing him an injustice to assume that he would just up and leave if the romance didn’t work? Wasn’t that implying that Napoleon was only helping him for a chance to get with him? Wasn’t that idea disproven by the fact that Napoleon had no idea Illya knew of his feelings and he was still helping Illya, expecting nothing in return?

Illya had sat quietly then and he sat quietly now, ruminating on it. He knew she would change the affirmation if he asked, but she was all about empowering him by giving him choices and not questioning the decisions he made for himself. It built up his self-confidence, which he suspected was the point of the strategy, anyway. But what she was saying here was so important to him. He was worthy of affection, was one point. He didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, was another. He really needed to hear that, and mostly to hear it from himself. It also implied that he didn’t owe anything to Napoleon, that it was Napoleon’s choice to help Illya and that meant that Illya was not responsible for repaying Napoleon. It felt good to think of it in those terms. It made his chest untighten a bit and the sick feeling in his stomach dissipate to something more tolerable.

“I… I have romantic feelings for Napoleon Solo,” Illya said, the words slowly falling from his mouth. She nodded her head and gave him an encouraging smile to continue. “They are… are valid,” he continued. He swallowed. “They are returned.” He felt a little foolish saying this all aloud, but he continued. “I can choose what I want to do about them…. And…. and it is alright if I do nothing.” He stopped and she looked so proud and excited, that Illya thought she might burst.

“That is wonderful, Illya,” she said nodding her head. “That is absolutely wonderful. Can you repeat that to me a few more times?” He did, each time getting easier to say than the last. By the time they had five minutes left, he had finally said it all the way through with ease and no hesitation. “Good, Illya. Very good. Alright. Well, we’re pretty much done for today. What are your plans when you leave since there’s no school?”

“I will nap,” he admitted and she laughed. “Napoleon usually stays with me. So. He will be there for few hours. We will… how you say…” He paused, looking for the words. “Hang out.”

“Good, that sounds like you’ll have fun.” She stood up and he followed suit. She walked him to the door. “And Illya, if you have the occasion to choose to do something about it today?”

“It is alright if I do nothing,” Illya replied and she smiled at him, patting him on the shoulder. She only reached about there anyway.

“Good,” she replied. “Have a nice weekend, Illya. I’ll see you next week, alright?”

“Yes, alright,” he responded, and she let him go. He walked past the front desk, awkwardly waving to the receptionist, a man in his mid-twenties with brown hair, dark skin, and a never-wavering cheery smile on his face. Napoleon was already waiting outside for him when he made his way out, and Illya got straight into the car.

Napoleon was in a pair of fitted jeans and a long sleeved shirt with a collar that peeked out of the sweater he had thrown over it. He smiled at Illya as he pulled out of the parking lot and made his way to Illya’s house, not engaging him and giving him time to decompress after his session. Illya appreciated that and had told Napoleon as much, to which the other boy had blushed and tried to laugh it off. He had admitted to looking up what he could do for Illya to make things a bit easier on him and giving him some time to reflect on his sessions immediately after had been a tip given by a family psychologist that had posted an article on the internet. Illya had been flattered and secretly touched that Napoleon had gone through the trouble of researching methods to help without Illya even asking. He had smiled and thanked him.

“That’s what friends do, Peril,” Napoleon had said with a nervous chuckle and Illya had let him have the comment without a rebuttal from him, just that once.

He stayed quiet until they got to his house, noon time just having rolled around. Napoleon parked out front and they walked in without speaking still. Illya headed up to his room, Napoleon following without comment. Illya wondered when they had gotten to the point where they didn’t even need to speak to convey what they wanted to say, but he thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of it. He was very comfortable. He walked into his room and tossed his coat to the side. A slant of light was falling through the balcony window, hitting his bed just right so that Illya knew it would be warm when he crawled in. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before and he was aching for a nap. He collapsed into bed and burrowed under the blankets, ignoring Napoleon’s soft chuckles in favor of getting comfortable.

The next time he was aware he was awake, he was turned away from the streak of light and facing Napoleon. His eyes looked at his alarm clock first which told him it was a little after two in the afternoon. He then looked over to Napoleon who was working on what looked like calculus. Illya shut his eyes and dozed to the sound of Napoleon’s pencil scratching against paper and the clicking of his calculator as he stabbed at the buttons. The sounds stopped after a few moments and Illya peeked at his friend to see what the cause was in his lull of work. Napoleon was looking at him, that tender expression on his face, but this time, he shook his head as though he were being foolish and a strand of hair fell into his eyes, which he unsuccessfully tried to blow back into place. Illya took advantage of this distraction to speak.

“You have hands for reason, Cowboy,” he mumbled and Napoleon sat back, startled. Illya couldn’t help the grin that came to his face.

“Christ, Peril. Warn a man,” Napoleon muttered. He let out a sigh and looked at Illya with a smile. “So Sleeping Beauty wakes, does he?”

“You are Sleeping Beauty,” Illya said without thinking, a crease in his forehead. “I am more like Merida. I have weapons and horse and refuse to be married off to random weakling.”

Napoleon snorted. “I honestly can’t think of a reason why you would have seen Brave.”

“I can,” Illya said, propping himself on an arm. “Is because I like movie.”

“Fair enough,” Napoleon admitted, and rolled his eyes. “How was the nap?”

“I am still tired,” Illya admitted. “How is calculus go?”

“Eh.”

“How many have you done?”

 “…six out of twenty,” Napoleon admitted. Well, that wasn’t too impressive for two hours of work. Illya asked him how many he had done correctly. Now, Napoleon got sheepish and shy, his eyes flitting away from Illya’s. “Um, all of them?” Illya perked up at this. That was a major improvement. Their tests were usually only ten to fifteen problems long and they had about an hour and a half to work on them. If Napoleon kept this up, he would be able to pass their next few exams and not fail the class. Because if he failed the class, he wouldn’t graduate, and if he didn’t graduate, he wouldn’t go to college and Illya would be forced to move on without him and…

“Peril?” Napoleon said, getting Illya’s attention. “You started hyperventilating there. Deep breaths, yeah?” Illya swallowed hard and laid back, doing just that. Once he had calmed himself he looked over to Napoleon. “I know it’s not that great,” he said, pointing to his math. “But I think that most of the time I took up was checking and rechecking each problem because I couldn’t believe I had actually done them right.” He laughed to himself. “So, I guess your lessons have been paying off, haven’t they?”

“Of course,” Illya said, raising an eyebrow. “I am genius. You said this yourself.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Napoleon said with a chuckle. “My bad.”

“At least I can do math and not have to rely on looks to pass class,” Illya said without malice, a smile on his face. Napoleon faked a hurt cry.

“Awh, Peril. Now you’re just being mean.” He winked at Illya and smiled. Then he yawned and rubbed at his face. “Yeah, I had a long night too.” Napoleon tried to wave the fatigue off, but Illya was already frowning.

“You should lie down,” he said without thinking. “Is not like we have not shared bed before. Come.” He pulled back the covers and scooted back a bit, making room for Napoleon.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow but shrugged and kicked off his shoes. He shimmied out of his sweater, staying in the long sleeved shirt, and slid in beside Illya, burrowing under the blankets and giving a full body shake before he sighed in content. He squirmed around and then flipped onto his side so his back was to Illya, then he scooted back so Illya’s chest was pressed against his back. He sighed and then yawned again, rubbing his eyes and Illya was holding his breath, waiting for Napoleon to stop moving around so god-damned much.

“This okay?” Napoleon asked, voice already fading. Illya scooted forward a bit more, biting his lip and trying to be careful about his movements so as not to scare Napoleon.

“Yes, is fine.” He rested his forehead against the back of Napoleon’s head, his mouth just barely brushing the nape of Napoleon’s neck. “This is alright?” he whispered.

“Mmhmm, yeah,” Napoleon murmured. “You’re… so good to me, Peril,” Napoleon continued in that drowsy voice of his, and Illya couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or honest. He decided not to worry about it as Napoleon dropped off into sleep, his breathing evening out, becoming more shallow and deeper. Illya found his eyes drooping closed again and let sleep take him, the scent of Napoleon’s rose shampoo filling his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally, like over 20,000 words, but I split it up into three chapters because THERE WERE SO MANY WORDS?
> 
> Also, I'm working on a fanmix for this fic. I don't remember if I've said that already. But when it's finally done, or you know by the last chapter of this - whichever comes first - I'll post the 8tracks link.


	6. But You've Got Me Looking in Through Blinds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, now for some crime. What's a good fic without any crime?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes. I have no idea how to pick locks or how home security, cameras, street grid-electrical boxes, safes, and window security works. I'm just a dude with a computer that is too scared to Google shit because the police and government will find me and I'm not white enough to get away with this shit. That being said, please take my Creative License away from me and enjoy the hilarity of it all. We'll just say it adds to the slapstick humor. Or something like that.

Illya woke up first.

Napoleon was lying half on top of him, drooling into his shirt. Illya wondered if it was becoming a habit to wake up like this, and if it was, he was sure he didn’t mind. Most of his fatigue had faded away with his nap, so he lied on his back and ran his hands up and down Napoleon’s spine, his eyes closed and his mind blessedly quiet for once. It lasted for all of ten minutes before Napoleon was snuffling against him and squirming awake. He moaned as he opened his eyes, clearly unhappy to be awakened. He buried his face in Illya’s shirt and Illya wondered if Napoleon could hear his heart erratically beating.

“Well, Peril, this is an unfortunate circumstance,” Napoleon muttered. Illya felt his stomach tighten in hurt. “I seem to be awake,” he continued, and Illya relaxed again. Napoleon struggled to sit up, pulling away from Illya and taking his warmth with him. Illya tried not to be too bitter about that. But then, the bitterness was gone and Illya was laughing. Napoleon turned his head to look at him and frowned. “What?”  
“Your hair, Cowboy,” Illya said between chortles. Napoleon’s hand flew to the back of his head as he felt around at the mess it was. 

“Ah, my beloved cowlicks,” Napoleon said with a laugh. “Happens when I sleep good,” he said. Then he paused and wiggled his eyebrows at Illya. “Or, you know, when I get a good roll around with someone.” Illya’s face heated and Napoleon laughed. “I’ve been told it’s a good look on me.”

Illya rolled his eyes and tried to force his blush away as he said, “You have been told everything is good look on you.”

“True,” Napoleon conceded. He stretched. “What’s the time, anyway?”

Illya peeked around Napoleon’s body at his alarm clock and said, “Almost five.”

“What?” Napoleon yelped. He turned to look at the alarm clock and then hopped out of Illya’s bed. Illya frowned.

“What, you have place to be?” he asked, a bit embarrassed that he was sounding so put out.

“Nope,” Napoleon said. “We do.”

“We?” Illya asked, getting uneasy. What had Napoleon got him into now?

“Yep. I have a plan,” Napoleon continued as he looked around for his sweater.

“Plan for what?” Illya asked, turning to lay on his back. It was probably going to be something stupid…

“To get your watch back of course,” Napoleon said, as though it were obvious. Illya bolted upright in bed and looked at him. He had completely forgotten about the watch. Did that make him a bad person? He knew his therapist would say no, but he needed some time to believe that. “Or, well,” Napoleon continued on, oblivious of Illya’s turmoil. “Your father’s watch, which is still technically your watch because he’s… well, anyway!” He turned to Illya. “The watch! We’re going to – why are you still in bed?”

Illya blinked up at him, still shocked. Napoleon had still been thinking of ways to get his father’s watch back for him, enough so that he had actually formulated a plan. Illya felt his heart swell in his chest. He was going to have to repay Napoleon back somehow. Maybe an amazing gift for his birthday, which was coming up soon, now that Illya thought about it. Napoleon would be eighteen in about a month, Gaby would be eighteen right after and then Illya would turn eighteen right before graduation two months after them. He could do something good for Napoleon, he was determined to. And god, he’d known Napoleon for almost a year now. What the hell? How had it all started with a stupid party game and losing his watch?

“Peril, get out of bed. This plan hinges on us being on time,” Napoleon said, throwing Illya’s jeans at his head. “Let’s go!”

“Yes, I am come,” Illya mumbled catching his trousers as they fell into his lap.

“Not how I want you to,” he thought he heard Napoleon murmur, but when he looked up, Napoleon was already toeing his shoes on and grabbing his car keys. “Oleg’s out of town this weekend, right?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes,” Illya confirmed, getting out of bed and sliding into his pants. He swiped a sweater from his closet and struggled into it.

“Great! That means if we get arrested, he’ll probably only find out _after_ he comes home. Better for you,” Napoleon told him, as though Illya didn’t know that himself.

“What exactly are we do?” Illya asked warily as they made their way downstairs and outside to Napoleon’s car.

“Well, okay, don’t get mad,” Napoleon said as he started to drive them to the side of town that Luigi and his family lived in.

“Why would I get mad?” Illya asked, suddenly getting worried. It slid up his throat and made it hard for him to breathe. What had Napoleon done?

“So, these past few weeks, after you would come home and nap, I would hang out here, right?” Illya nodded. “Except… not the whole time,” Napoleon admitted sheepishly, taking a turn a bit too hard. He didn’t look at Illya.

“What?” Illya asked in confusion.

“You would always sleep for like, four hours, so I would go to Luigi’s house and … well, I don’t want to say _spy_ on him, more like stake out the house. I put together a schedule for his Fridays. The house will be empty from five o’clock until eight at night, which is when his parents get home. He gets home around nine. So. We have a three hour window.”

“You… left in my sleep… and spied on little Italian shit Luigi to get my watch back?” Illya clarified, unsure whether he should be feeling flattery or some type of betrayal that Napoleon would leave him in his sleep. 

“Yes?” Napoleon said. “I always got back before you woke up or said I was peeing if I wasn’t. I wanted to have a solid plan before I told you, so that you didn’t think I was just leaving you by yourself on purpose.”

Illya was touched by that. Napoleon actually cared about his feelings. Well of course he did, Illya thought to himself. The boy would have romanced the hell out of him, if only he thought Illya was interested. Illya couldn’t be too mad that he was being left in his sleep so that the boy he was falling in love with could scope out the place that had his most prized possession, just so they could get it back together.

“I am not too mad,” Illya said. He would get over the hurt of being left, especially because Napoleon _was_ always there when he woke up and he had a legitimate reason. “What is this plan?” he asked. They had just pulled up on the side of a street in another nice part of town. It was a little lower scale than Illya’s side of town, but it was still beautiful.

“Oh thank god,” Napoleon muttered. He had been quite worried, hadn’t he? Illya couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. “Well, I’ll show you.” Napoleon got out of the car and walked down the street, stopping a bit away from a house. “That is Luigi’s house. As you can see, no cars in the drive, no lights on inside. Empty, because it is…” He pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket. “A little after five.”

“So, plan?”

“Well, Peril, there’s a reason I stopped right here.” Napoleon pointed to the house and Illya squinted a bit, but then saw what Napoleon was trying to draw his attention to. “Cameras.” Napoleon shrugged. “That’s the only part of this plan I’m stuck on. I’ve scoped it out enough to know that there’s no cameras inside the house, just out here. I can pick that lock easy enough. Then it’s just a matter of searching the house. The front and back doors are the only places with a camera. That’s because the windows on the side of the house are too high to get to climbing _and_ difficult to open from the outside. There’s a fire escape outside one window, which is how I found out about the hard windows. Also, a house alarm system that would go off if I opened the window.”

“So we have technology problem?” Illya said, scoping out the house and running some calculations through his head.

“Yep.”

“Hmmm.” Illya turned on his heel and started walking back down the street. The sky was a bit darker than when they had first gotten there. He stopped a bit ahead of the car near an electrical pole. Then he started to climb it using the metal pegs dug into the wood.

“Uh, Peril?” Napoleon called from below as he went up. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t appreciating the view, but that’s also dangerous as fuck.”

“Shut. Up,” Illya shouted, gritting his teeth. He stopped at the metal box that was half way up. He took his phone out of his pocket and used it to smash open the tiny, cheap lock at the top. Then he opened the box and whistled. He had no idea where Luigi’s house could be in the mess of buttons and wires. So he shrugged and ripped at a handful of them until the sprinklers in one of the houses stopped and the few streetlights that were already on went out. He climbed down, leaving it open. Napoleon was staring at him. “What?”

“Did you just take out the power on the whole street?”

“Small towns still use electrical boxes,” Illya said with a shrug, his chest swelling with a bit of pride. “I have played with electronics inside boxes for long time, since I was child.”

“I think I love you,” Napoleon said faintly and then started laughing, even though the words made Illya’s heart drop into his stomach. Geez. Knowing what Illya did about Napoleon’s feelings for him, that meant a lot. But of course Napoleon didn’t know that.

“We have few hours. Let us go,” Illya said, jogging back to Luigi’s house. The red light on the camera was out and people around the neighborhood were already swearing. “House probably has generator. Will come back on in about five minutes, yes?”

“Probably,” Napoleon said, taking out his lock-picking tools. “Can you pick a lock?” Illya nodded and Napoleon handed him a set and pair of gloves because, as he put it, “Best not to leave fingerprints.”

“I take top,” Illya said.

Napoleon tried not to smile and said, “I’ll take the bottom, then.” Napoleon had already started when Illya realized he wouldn’t be able to do the top and nudged Napoleon away. Napoleon sniggered as he switched to the top and Illya worked on the bottom instead. Napoleon was done in seconds and waited for Illya. But it had been a while and he was out of practice. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Napoleon asked, only a little peeved. Illya stayed silent and struggled for a few more seconds before Napoleon moved him away. “Let me.” They were inside in seconds, with Illya ripping the alarm box out of the wall seconds before the power came on. No alarms went off in the house. “Loving your work, Peril,” Napoleon teased and Illya rolled his eyes. He was more the brains and brawn of that operations, and less the cleverness.

“Were we look first?”

“Splitting up is probably best,” Napoleon said. “We can start upstairs and make our way down. Deal?” Illya nodded and they both ran up. Illya took one side of the upstairs and Napoleon took the other. Illya started to go through the bathroom, found nothing, and moved on. He check a few linen closets, the attic, and an office before he heard Napoleon shout for him down the hall. He ran over to him, expecting the worst, only to find Napoleon standing in front of a simple house safe, set into the wall behind a shelf. The room had a few posters of naked women on the walls and, seeing as Luigi only had sisters, this was probably his room.

“That is safe,” Illya said.

“Yes, Peril. Thank you for stating the obvious,” Napoleon said with a wink as he cracked first his neck, then his knuckles. “And I’m going to crack it.”

“You?” Illya said incredulously.

“Yep,” Napoleon said with a grin. He had a stethoscope that he held against the door of the safe with one hand and used the other hand to turn the dial. He turned his head to listen better. “See, good old Sanders realized I had sticky fingers when I was small, so he’d bring me to work sometimes, let me loose in the room where they kept all the uncracked stuff, waiting for the professionals. His boss didn’t have a problem with it, because everything was locked. But then I started unlocking things. It was nice, helped on a few cases, but I was banned from that room and the station.” Napoleon smiled up at him, still turning the dial this way and that. “Nothing was safe after that. The internet was such a helpful place, on top of everything.” There was a snick and Napoleon gave him a smile so pretty that Illya felt his knees shake. “I’ve been doing this since I was seven, and it seems Luigi just started. Which is why I was able to crack this and his shit isn’t safe. I assume he’d keep it here, instead of anywhere else. Safest place for stolen things, especially when their owner wants it back.” He swung the door open and smiled.

Illya frowned. “Did you disable alarm?”

“This model doesn’t have an alarm,” Napoleon said as he stuck his hand inside the safe. Then the safe’s alarm went off. Both their eyes widened, Napoleon freezing like a child caught going in the cookie jar.

“Loving your work, Cowboy,” Illya said, despite the situation.

“Somehow, I just don't think that now is the time for making jokes, Peril,” Napoleon said as he extracted his hand as if burned. “Especially because your watch isn’t in there and someone is bound to be coming in here now that this alarm is screaming.”

“My watch is not there?” Illya said, deflating.

“Sorry, no,” Napoleon said, wholeheartedly sympathetic. “Fuck, where is it?”

“Does no matter now,” Illya said. “We need to go. But…”

“Yeah, no escape plan,” Napoleon said. “Ohhh.” He pulled out a wad of money from the safe. “I’ll take that,” he said with a grin and a wink to Illya’s surprised face. “There’s other things in there, but I don’t do drugs and the gold cuff-links are too easily identifiable. Besides, they look like a family heirloom. Honestly, I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“Yes, you are,” Illya said, slamming the safe shut.

“Yes, I am. But like I said, those cuff-links are easily identifiable, so no!” Napoleon said, stuffing the wad of cash into his trouser pocket. “We can count that later. For now, escape route!” Napoleon looked around the room, flinching as he heard the front door downstairs open and voices shouting in Italian. Then he laughed. “Look.” Napoleon pointed to Luigi’s window. Illya could see the fire escape. “There is a god,” Napoleon said, running to it and yanking the window up. Illya was going to yell for him to stop, since security was back on and they hadn’t disabled anything up here. But it was too late, Napoleon had already gotten the shock of a lifetime from whatever whacked out security Luigi’s family had in his home. “There is no god,” Napoleon yelped. But the window was already open, so Illya shoved him through and then started climbing down himself with enough presence of mind to shut the window above him. They stayed very still on the ladder of the fire escape as people burst into the room and then ran out. Napoleon started to climb down, wincing as his singed hands gripped the metal tight. When he got to the last rung of the fire escape, he let go and allowed himself to fall the short distance to the ground. Illya followed suit.

Together, they both ran through some of Luigi’s neighbor’s backyards and tool the roundabout way to the car. On one of the side streets getting there, a cop drove by on the way to the house, scaring the life out of Illya. Napoleon remained calm, though he was still wobbly on his feet from the shock. By this time, it was already getting dark, so the cop slowed beside them and rolled down his window. Illya started to sweat.

“Just follow my lead,” Napoleon whispered before he threw himself into Illya’s side, making them both stumble.

“You boys alright there?” the cop asked.

Napoleon only giggled and Illya said,” Um, yes, officer. We are just…” Napoleon kept laughing and dazedly walking sideways into him. Ah, Illya thought. Right. “We are fine. There was party and he is… little bit tipsy, is all.”

“Ah, kids these days,” the officer said, well-versed in small town rule-breaking. “That’s alright then. You take care of him now, won’t you?” Illya nodded his head earnestly. “And make sure to lock up your house tight tonight. Seems there’s been a break-in. Probably won’t investigate, since it’s just one occurrence and the way I’ve heard it, they didn’t leave much evidence and only took some cash. But still, they could hit again. You take care of yourselves now.” He drove away.

“My, my Peril. Look at you, evading the law like a pro. Looks like we’ll be okay. No jail for us,” Napoleon said with a grin. “Though Sanders will have to wonder if it was me or not.” At this, he grinned.

“Your hands,” Illya said, taking off Napoleon’s scorched gloves. There was some redness, but besides that, the gloves seemed to sustain most of the damage. He was lucky to have been wearing them.

“I’ll be fine, Illya,” Napoleon said, his voice soft. Illy looked up from Napoleon’s hands and realized he was effectively cradling them in his own. He cleared his throat and let them go. “Let’s get home then, shall we? I left some things at your house and if I don’t go home tonight, Sanders will definitely know this was me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Next one up is actually fucking mushy and some sexy times. Prepare your respective bodies. Thank.


	7. Trying To Forget Everything That Isn't You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sha-la-la-la-la-la what the hell, even the crab can tell, you wanna kiss the boy, whoa-whoa. 
> 
> Or something like that? Anyway, I have a feeling you know where this one is going. 
> 
> BACK TO THE COFFEE SHOP AU-NESS OF IT ALL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I've been building up to this chapter for like, ever. I've wanted to write this from the start but I knew this fic wouldn't happen if I wrote this first, so. 
> 
> Here it is. The moment I've - I mean _we've_ been waiting for. 
> 
> (If awkward teen sex and lots of asking for consent isn't your thing, then I guess, maybe don't read this one? Or if sexy tiems just isn't your thing. This is Rated NC-17 for explicit descriptions of sex~)

The rest of the night was uneventful and the next day was quiet. No one came knocking on Illya’s door and Napoleon didn’t call him to tell him to flee the police. That was a plus. Illya puttered around the quiet house, got halfway through The Brothers Karamazov, and did all of his laundry. In all, a pretty par for the course Saturday. He made dinner around seven, washed all of the dishes, put away leftovers, and then finished The Brothers Karamazov. By the time he shut the book, a bittersweet satisfaction left over from the ending, it was nearing midnight. His stomach rumbled and he rolled his eyes, ignoring it. He wasn’t even tired, which was annoying. He lay down in bed, eyes closed, thinking of Napoleon and his smile, his therapist’s words from the day before, and how Napoleon felt lying next to him in his bed. If only he could wake up to that all the time, Illya thought. Of course, if that were to happen, then he would have to do something about his feelings and Napoleon’s feelings.

 _I don’t have to do anything about them and that is okay_ , he thought to himself, instantly feeling better with the affirmation. He really didn’t and that really was okay. He knew Napoleon was alright with that as well since he was still around, not expecting anything from Illya. Illya was so lucky to have someone like Napoleon around, someone who cared that way and didn’t mind how Illya was. Illya rubbed his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. It was half-past midnight and he was bored and buzzing with an off amount of energy, the kind that always struck him when he thought of Napoleon. He thought of texting Gaby and knew she would either not hear her phone chirp through her sleep, or else wake up to call him and rip him a new asshole for waking her up at this ungodly hour. The only other option was –

Illya’s phone started to ring.

“Hello?” he said into, not bothering to look at the caller ID. There was only one person he thought it could be calling him at this time of night.

“Heya, Peril,” Napoleon said, chirpy and wide-awake. “I thought you might be up.”

“You know me so well, Cowboy,” Illya said, rolling his eyes and wondering if Napoleon could hear his smile.

“Of course. That’s what best friends are for,” Napoleon said and Illya detected some sadness there. But the fact that Napoleon just soldiered on through gave Illya a sense of peace. “Anyway, that money that I swiped from Luigi’s? Turns out, there are a lot of bills. Made me think, I’d like to spend some of this on my favorite Russian giant.”

“You have more Russian giant than just me?” Illya teased as he sat up and grabbed his shoes, getting ready to go.

“Of course not, Peril. You’re the only Russian giant for me,” Napoleon said, laughing. But the statement, as far as Illya knew, was too true. Napoleon was being such a good sport, being able to joke about it. “Anyway, if it’s not too late for coffee, I’ll be at your place in ten. We’ll hit that all-night diner, and then… well, we’ll see.” He paused. “It’s supposed to rain around two in the morning, so bring a coat, yeah?”

“Yes,” Illya agreed. He said his goodbyes and then hung up. Grabbing his wallet, he then stuffed it into his coat pocket and slid into it, the brown suede pulling snuggly over his body. It had been his grandfather’s coat, given to him by the old man before he died when Illya’s parents were still alive and he was young. Illya ran to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth, and then he headed downstairs, just in time for Napoleon to pull up outside his house and beep. Illya smiled and walked outside, locking the door before running down the steps and getting into Napoleon’s car.

“Well you sure were quick,” Napoleon said, smiling as he pulled away from Illya’s house.

“You said ten minutes,” Illya frowned.

“Indeed I did. Punctual as ever.”

“That is Russian way,” Illya insisted before he realized Napoleon was teasing him. He rolled his eyes and grumbled, only to have Napoleon coo at him and attempt to pinch his cheek. “Keep eyes on road, Cowboy. Is not a rodeo.”

“Awh, Peril, but I can’t resist when you’re looking at me like that. Those cheeks are begging to be pinched,” Napoleon said.

“Pinch my cheeks, I punch yours,” Illya threatened with no real heat behind his words. Napoleon knew it and he knew Napoleon knew it, so they both chuckled at their antics. “Where is this diner? And why is it open so late?”

“It never closes, Peril,” Napoleon explained. “That’s why it’s an all-night diner. Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

“That is always,” Illya said.

“Exactly. It was the first place I had breakfast at in town. Really great food and nice people. It’s a little slow at night, which is nice, though you will get the drunk people on Friday and Saturday nights. But a little later tonight than when we’re going.”

“Technically, is Sunday morning,” Illya pointed out. Napoleon rolled his eyes, making Illya smile.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

The diner was on the edge of town and looked like it belonged in the forties. The outside was covered in shiny faux-chrome and there were neon signs lighting up the windows. From them, Illya could see that inside was brightly lit with septic-yellow lights, the color clashing horribly with the cherry-red vinyl seated booths. There were a few cars parked to one side of it, but Napoleon was right about one thing: the business did seem slow right about then. They must be there just before the drunk onslaught fell upon the old place.

“I am surprised there is no checkered flooring,” Illya said walking in behind Napoleon. Napoleon laughed, as did a waitress that overheard him as they came in. She told them to pick any place to sit and Napoleon took him to a booth in the middle of the row against the windows. The table was clean, but worn, and the vinyl seating had a few rips and cracks, showing the spongy foam filling of the cushions. Napoleon settled in and got them both coffees with a smile and charming thank you. Illya was so wrapped up in watching him that it took a few seconds for him to realize Napoleon was trying to get his attention. “Yes?”

“I said, would you like a menu? When I come at night, I usually get pancakes or French toast with my coffee.” Napoleon waved a menu in front of Illya’s face and Illya snatched it away, making the other boy laugh. Now that Illya was really looking, he saw that Napoleon was in a thin hooded sweatshirt with a polo underneath and khaki colored jeans. He looked good, with a curly lock of hair falling into his face and his big blue eyes shining wide as he scanned the menu, though Illya was almost one-hundred percent sure he was going to order what he always got when he came here. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch Napoleon’s face.

“Alright, boys. What can I get yo- Napoleon!” Illya looked up at their waitress, a very pretty girl with dark hair, dark skin, a nose ring, and a hijab tucked artfully around her hair. She had what seemed to be the standard diner uniform of a short-sleeved polo that was as red as the seating they were on and black pants with a little black apron around her waist.  She had a hand braced on her hip, the other holding her ordering notepad. “How are you?”

“Doing well,” Napoleon said with a smile. “I see you’re all smiles tonight. What’s the occasion?” Napoleon asked, that smile firmly in place and genuine. Illya felt a bit uncomfortable about the familiarity they showed each other, and then a bit jealous. Well, he thought to himself, if he wasn’t going to do anything about his feelings, then he had no right to feel this way. He sighed and tuned back into their conversation.

“… were right about the matching thing. I painted my nails the same shade of purple as the scarf I was using that day and everyone wanted a piece of this,” their waitress was saying, using a hand to gesture down her whole body with a wink. Illya unconsciously grit his teeth at that.

“Who did you choose?”

“A very beautiful and nice black girl with dark green eyes and reddish-brown hair,” she said with a sigh. Thank you for the matching advice.

“See, Peril?” Napoleon said, addressing him. Illya was a bit shocked. Was Napoleon intentionally including him? “Matching does matter.”

“Not everything has to match,” Illya immediately responded, unable to help himself, because if was true.

“He has a point, Napoleon,” she said. She smiled at Illya. “Pardon for the rudeness, but Napoleon gave me some fashion advice that landed me a hot date. I’m Sera.”

“Illya,” Illya responded, raising an eyebrow at Napoleon. He wasn’t expecting Napoleon to cringe and Sera to squeak in delighted surprise.

“ _You’re_ Illya?” Sera said, shooting a look at Napoleon. “Well thank goodness, he finally went for -”

“Absolutely nothing,” Napoleon said cutting her off. Her face fell a bit and she deflated, then rolled her eyes, looking unimpressed. “I occasionally talk about our escapades,” Napoleon explained, but by the look on Sera’s face it was more than that.

“Uh-huh,” she said, going along with it, though poorly. “The usual?” she asked Napoleon and he nodded, glaring at her. She ignored him and asked Illya sweetly, “What about you, hon?” Illya ordered and watched Sera go back to the kitchen without scrawling down their orders, muttering to herself about stupid boys and not taking their own advice.

“You talk about me,” Illya said, trying to be irritated and not quite getting it right.

“You’re my best friend, Peril. Is it so surprising that I talk about you?” Napoleon said, sounding a bit defensive. Illya was confused. This would have been a perfect moment for Napoleon to tell him about his feelings, and yet Napoleon was vehemently steering clear of such things. Was he afraid Illya would reject him and cease being friends with him? He hoped Napoleon had a bit more faith in him than that. Or was this just Illya projecting what he hoped Napoleon would do to him? Did he want Napoleon to confess to him? Oh goodness, Illya had never suspected that maybe _he_ wanted to do something about their feelings because _he_ _wanted to_. That was all Illya could think of in that moment, looking at Napoleon’s red cheeks as he sipped at his milky coffee. All this time he had been afraid that he _had_ to do something about it and had never thought about if he _wanted_ to. And surprisingly, Illya did. Who else, he thought, who else did he want like this, had he ever wanted like this?

“Peril, stop staring. It’s unnerving,” Napoleon grouched.

“Am not staring,” Illya said, but his voice was a low whisper and Napoleon looked worried.

“You alright? Not,” and now he lowered his own voice for privacy. “Not having an attack of some kind? Bad reaction? What do you need me to do?” His eyes were wide and he was ready to help. Illya wanted to smack himself in the head. He was an idiot.

“I am fine,” he said, raising and eyebrow. “But curious.”

“About?” Napoleon asked with a frown of his own. Illya thought Napoleon was probably deflecting.

“What do you talk to Sera about?” Illya asked, swallowing around the lump of nerves in his throat. Napoleon’s eyes widened and he looked a bit panicked as someone brought their food out to them. He focused on that for the moment, as though Illya hadn’t asked him anything. Illya thought he would have to repeat himself or else Napoleon wouldn’t answer. But then Napoleon cleared his throat.

“Why do you ask?” Ah, he _was_ deflecting.

“We are best friends, no?” Illya said, pulling a fast one and hitting him where he knew it would hurt. Maybe it was a low blow, but Illya had to be sure of Napoleon’s feelings right now. If he was going to do something because he wanted to, then he wanted all of the facts. “So, why not tell me? You do not trust me?”

“Of course I trust you!” Napoleon exclaimed. He looked around, a bit embarrassed at his outburst and then shoved a slice of pancake into his mouth. Illya played around with his eggs. “Geez. Give me some credit,” Napoleon muttered around a mouthful of food.

“Do not speak with full mouth,” Illya said with a grimace. “Is rude. And disgusting.” He snorted. “Americans.” Napoleon rolled his eyes but smiled behind his next sip of coffee. “So? You share or no?”

“Uh,” Napoleon said, fiddling a bit with his fork and knife. Then he sighed and Illya felt a burst of excitement go through him. This was it. “Well, I asked her for some advice. Inadvertently. I was mostly complaining.”

“About?” Illya prodded, and he could practically hear Napoleon grit his teeth.

“I … have a thing for someone,” he mumbled, looking away. Illya swallowed hard and nodded.

“And you did not come to me because…?” That’s what a friend would ask, wasn’t it?

“Well…” Napoleon shrugged. “Spur of the moment thing, I guess. I wasn’t looking for advice. See, this person, well. I don’t want to overwhelm them. Or make them seem like they owe me something. They’ve been through a lot. I think you could understand that, right?” Illya nodded, his mouth too dry to answer. “Sera suggested I just… go for it? But I’m more the mind that if the person is interested, they can initiate something. If not, well, then. We’re friends. And, anyway, I’ll still have you.” He laughed, but it came out forced and Illya’s heart hurt at how twisted the comment was. If he hadn’t known Napoleon was talking about him, he would have been flattered. As it was, he just ached for the other boy. “I dunno Peril. What would you do in this situation?”

“Let other person make move,” Illya admitted, because he would. “Safer for both that way.” It was.

“Yeah. Thought so,” Napoleon said and he laughed again. Illya hated that laugh, the grating sound it made, tinged with hurt but also resignation. Napoleon had given up. Illya swallowed hard, was about to open his mouth and say something, stupid probably, when Napoleon looked intently out the window. “It’s raining!”

Illya turned to look out too and said, “And?”

“I happen to adore the rain, Peril,” Napoleon said with another eyebrow wiggle. He finished his last pancake and stood up. “I’ll be back.”

“Where you go?” Illya called after him, turning in his seat to watch him leave.

“To play in the rain. Where else?” Napoleon hollered back and then disappeared out the doors. Illya sighed and ate his eggs, runny like he loved them, perfect for dipping toast into. Sera was suddenly at his arm, refilling his coffee and looking at Napoleon standing outside in the rain with his arms stretched out at his sides, face turned up and smiling. Illya was staring.

“You can go outside too, you know. I know you’ll come back in and pay,” she said with a smile. “That one has never dined and ditched on me before, I doubt he’ll start now. He’s honest with the people he likes.” Sera paused and gave Illya a _look_. “But I suspect you know that.”

“Yes,” Illya said with a sigh, knowing what he was going to do and hoping it would go well. He wasn’t much of a romantic, but he did try for the things he wanted. And he wanted this very much. He stood up, shrugging off his coat. “I know.”

“Shouldn’t you take the coat with you?” she asked as he walked to the door.

“I leave it inside,” Illya said. “Napoleon will be soaked. He will be cold. This way, he has warm things to wear.”

He didn’t see her smile wide behind him.

* * *

“You will catch cold,” Illya said as he came up in front of Napoleon. Napoleon didn’t even move, stayed where he was, eyes still closed. His hair was a sopping wet mess of waves and curls.

“Probably not,” Napoleon answered, sounding too pleased to be irritated.

“You will catch cold,” Illya insisted. “Then, you will die.”

Now, Napoleon laughed. “Definitely not.”

The rain was coming down harder now, soaking Napoleon to the bone. His thin hoodie was wet and heavy with rainwater and his polo was already a shade darker with dampness. Illya was willing to bet even his pants were wet. Drops of rain slid down Napoleon’s face, down the line of his neck, dripping onto his collarbone. Illya licked his lips and then swallowed hard, working up his courage. He could just not, he reminded himself. But he wanted to. He deserved something good, he thought to himself, the voice sounding suspiciously like his therapist’s. That made him roll his eyes a bit.

“I can try something?” Illya asked, getting a bit closer. Napoleon shrugged, eyes still closed. He gave a spin and laughed, kicking up rain water. He sighed in content.

“Sure, Peril. But if you give me a Wet Willie, there will be hell to pay,” Napoleon responded.

“Who is Willie and why he is wet?” Illya asked, making Napoleon crack up and smile too wide, his teeth and gums showing.

“Never mind,” Napoleon said. “I’ll introduce you two later.” Illya shook his head at that. Americans, honestly. “But yeah, go for it. Just don’t ruin my hair.”

“Your hair is already ruin,” Illya said, exasperated. How could he still feel exasperated when he was about to –

Illya cupped Napoleon’s face in his hands and kissed him quick on the mouth, even through Napoleon’s eyes fluttering open in confusion and then the tiny gasp that slipped out in his shock. He would have pulled away if Napoleon had not grabbed him by the shirt and pressed him closer, his tongue searing hot on Illya’s rain-cold lips, licking inside his mouth. Illya finally had to pull away to catch his breath. Napoleon was panting, looking at him like a deer caught in the headlights, a slightly dazed expression lighting his eyes. He was clutching at Illya like he was a drowning man and Illya was the piece of driftwood, keeping him afloat.

“Um,” he said, starting to shake.

“Cowboy?” Illya said, concern coloring his voice. Holy shit, was he wrong? Did Napoleon not want this? He should have let it alone, shouldn’t he have? Oh god, what had he done…?

“Yeah, I’m… I’m just cold, that’s all.” Illya calmed a fraction and slid his hands from Napoleon’s face to wrap his arms around the boy’s body, pulling him in against Illya’s warm chest. “You’re like a space heater, Peril,” Napoleon said, still in a state of shock. But it was wearing off and a slow smile was spreading across Napoleon’s face, bright and incredulous. He looked far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for it almost being two in the morning.

“We go inside?” Illya said, still careful.

“Yeah,” Napoleon agreed. “Cup of coffee will warm me up.” He paused. “And calm my nerves. Geez, Peril. You know how to rock a boy’s world, don’t you?”

They headed inside, Illya glad it was too dark while outside to see his blush. It had calmed once they hit the diner, sliding back into their booth. He grabbed his coat and stood, placing it gently around Napoleon’s shaking shoulders. Napoleon’s eyes looked up at him in wonder and then he smiled, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe what was happening. He wrapped Illya’s coat tighter around himself and then shyly sniffed Illya’s collar, looked dazedly happy at the scent.

“I always liked how you smelled,” Napoleon whispered.

“Thank you,” Illya answered, and then mentally kicked himself. Thank you, really? That’s all he had? “You… smell like rose.”

“It’s my shampoo,” Napoleon answered, that sly smile starting to fall back in place. That was more familiar, though Illya had adored the quiet, surprised and bashful look as well. “So… you kissed me.”

“I asked,” Illya said, unsure if Napoleon was happy about it.

“I know you did. Thanks. I did say to try what you liked. I just didn’t think that you liked…well, me.” It was so matter of fact. Illya didn’t like it.

“Of course I like you,” he said, adamant.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Napoleon said, eyebrow up.

Illya cleared his voice and said a bit softer, looking at the table and a slice of toast soaked in egg yolk, “Of _course_ I like you.” When he looked up, Napoleon looked gob smacked. Then he started laughing. Illya frowned. “Is not funny, Napoleon. I am serious.”

“You see, that’s the amazing part,” Napoleon said, once he had calmed down a bit. “I know you are.” Illya was frowning. “Oh my god, Gaby was right. You do…” He shook his head. “Illya, you should know, I respect our friendship enough not to tell you that I’d date the holy hell out of you if you asked.” He blinked at him, a tiny hopeful look in his eye that had Illya starting to smile. What the hell was wrong with the two of them?

“Napoleon,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You would like to try dating me?” he asked, smile full blown and his heart in his throat. This was his best friend. And he wanted to date him.

“I would, in fact, like to try dating you,” Napoleon said. He dropped his voice a little lower. “I would also like to make out with in my car for a bit. How’s that sound?”

Illya’s eyes rounded and he turned, catching Sera’s attention. “Check, please?”

* * *

Napoleon didn’t even bother moving his car away from the diner. It was raining and the windows were too streaked for anyone to see them or be able to identify them. They had crowded into the backseat, and now Napoleon was sucking kisses into the skin of Illya’s collarbones, kissing his neck and then his mouth hotly. He could feel the other boy hard against his thigh, could feel his own jeans getting tighter at the crotch. His hands tightened on Napoleon’s ass and then squeezed as he asked if it was alright, did it feel good?

“Yes, yes, yes,” Napoleon panted hotly into his ear. His kisses were turning sloppy and messy, more teeth and spit and tongue, than lips. Illya’s heart was pounding in his ears and he felt drunk. Napoleon pulled back, pressing their foreheads together, the tip of his nose tracing patterns on Illya’s cheek.

“You’re gonna hurt your back if you stay laying on the seat,” he whispered. He was so close that Illya could feel Napoleon’s eyelashes fluttering against his own. He snorted.

“You just say this because you want to get me in bed,” Illya teased, though he felt a shot of nerves run through him when Napoleon made a sound of acquiescence at the back of his throat.

“That is also true,” he said, in typical Napoleon fashion. But then he lowered his voice and kissed Illya’s cheek. “But only if _you_ want to. And only doing what you want to do.” He pulled back, licking his lips. “And if you want to just cuddle and talk until we fall asleep, you should know that I am one-hundred percent on-board with that too.”

“Okay,” Illya said. “We go to bed. We see what happens.” He paused. “My back is hurt.”

“I know, honey,” Napoleon said, smoothing down Illya’s hair. Illya’s heart jumped at the endearment. “Let’s get you in the front seat, yeah?”

Ten minutes later they were back at Illya’s, meandering up the stairs. Napoleon tickled his sides and Illya retaliated, chasing him up the stairs and into his room, just to hear that beautiful, sparkling laugh of his. He gently pushed Napoleon onto his bed, climbing up after him after kicking off his shoes. Napoleon was propped up on an elbow, leaning back with red cheeks, bright eyes, and messy hair. He had chucked off his sweater and now only his polo clung to his chest, damp with his nipples peaking underneath it from the cold. It was untucked from his trousers.

“Get your wet clothes off of my clean bed,” Illya growled, no heat behind it. Napoleon laughed.

“That would mean taking off all of my clothes, Peril.” He paused, his voice getting a bit more serious. “And I mean all of it.” Illya bit his lip and nodded slowly, feeling butterflies in the pit of his stomach. But this felt right and natural, and he couldn’t bring himself to be too nervous or even a little bit afraid.

“I know,” he said, and started to help Napoleon remove his polo.  

Napoleon’s smile softened and he nodded, letting Illya remove his shirt. They’d see each other shirtless, of course, but they’d never touched each other. Illya’s hands were light and fleeting, gentle and then more firm as his confidence grew. His thumbs brushed over Napoleon’s rosy nipples a few times, making them pebble and Napoleon shiver with something that was definitely not the cold. After that, he unbuttoned Napoleon’s trousers and helped him slide the wet denim off, shucking his own wet shirt and bottoms off too until the both of them were in their underwear.

It was then that Illya felt a moment of apprehension, but then Napoleon said, “C’mere,” and it faded. He crawled over to Napoleon, who laid him down and then asked if he could straddle him, to which Illya nodded eagerly. Napoleon leaned down and kissed him, wet and hot, but strangely chaste and sweet as well. He braced his hands on either side of Illya’s head and then rolled his hips down, their cocks rubbing against each other through the cotton of their underwear. Illya’s hands shot up to grasp Napoleon’s waist and Napoleon stopped, savoring his gasp. “Was that okay?” he asked, a lock of wet hair falling into his eyes.

“Yes,” Illya murmured. “Again?” Napoleon’s smile turned a bit wicked after that and he started to roll his hips, expertly humping Illya. Wet patches began to dampen their pants, sweat sliding down Napoleon’s arms to match. The wetness was doing more to chafe him than to smooth things along and Illya got an idea, a bit timid to speak up at first, but then more confident. “Napoleon?” he asked, voice breathy. Napoleon immediately stopped.

“Mmm?” He bent down and pressed kisses to Illya’s cheeks and eyelids, to his nose and neck, and finally his mouth. “Yes? A request or a question?”

“Request,” Illya said, smiling against the other boy’s mouth. “We can… take off the underpants?” He blinked up owlishly at Napoleon when the first reaction the other boy had was to kiss him hard on the mouth and then groan against his lips. “We do not have to if you do not want to…”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Napoleon said with a weak smile. “I definitely want to and we can, because I’ve recently been tested and don’t have anything, and I’m guessing you’ve never been with someone like this.” Illya shook his head. “It’s just…” He sighed. “With the way you’re talking, Peril, I’m gonna be a mess before we get anywhere.” Illya felt something tingle in his stomach at those words and that smile, those lips as they pressed to his mouth again, asked, “Can I?” as his fingers slipped under the waistband of Illya's underwear. Illya nodded and lifted his hips to help Napoleon remove his underwear, his cock erect and springing out, and tried not to blush with a bit of pride when Napoleon whistled low. “You know, I felt how big you were through our pants, but…”

“Uh… too big?” he asked, because he and Gaby had fooled around only a little and she had taken one look and decided to give him a blow job instead, when she had initially asked to fuck him.

“Oh, honey. I think you’re just my size,” Napoleon said with a grin. He let Illya help him slide off his underwear, his dick what Illya assumed was average with a very attractive and trimmed spattering of dark pubic hair at the base of his cock. Napoleon was already red and leaking, much like Illya was, and Illya had a feeling neither of them was going to last very long once they got skin on skin contact.

“You are circumcised,” Illya observed.

“And you are not,” Napoleon said with glee. “Of any cock I’ve seen, Peril, yours is literally my favorite. Forever. You have ruined me for any other cock.”

“Good,” Illya growled, not meaning to. Napoleon’s pupils dilated a bit at that.

“Oh Peril,” he said, straddling him again. They both hissed and gasped at the contact, the heat of the others skin on their own. “You say the sweetest things. Ready?” Illya nodded and that was it. Napoleon was rubbing their cocks together, messy and wet. He spit on his hand at one point and wrapped it around the two of them as best as he could. Illya bucked up into him at the touch of his hand, feeling his thighs begin to tremble. It was so much better this way than when he did it himself.

“Napoleon,” he whispered and Napoleon’s eyes rolled into his head as his hips stuttered forward and he groaned, cum spurting in a few messy strings against Illya’s belly. The sight was erotic enough to make Illya come right after him, hiccupping Napoleon’s name as he did so, the other boy’s mouth mashed against his own as they rode out the aftershocks of their orgasms together. Illya’s head felt a bit fuzzy at that, and Napoleon rolled over onto his back, chest heaving and eyes blinking rather quickly, as if blinking away black spots.

“That was… probably the best orgasm I’ve had with another fellow human being,” Napoleon admitted.

“Me too,” Illya said. It was his first, but he suspected Napoleon knew that.

“You okay?” Napoleon asked, turning to him. “How are you feeling?” Illya turned too, grimacing at the mess on his stomach. Napoleon was instantly worried. “Illya?”

“I am fine,” he said. “Very good. Just… messy.”

“Ah,” Napoleon said with a laugh. “Let me take care of that.” Illya should have probably found it disgusting that Napoleon slid down the bed and licked his own and Illya’s mess off of Illya’s stomach, but his cock twitched against his thigh and he started to harden again. Napoleon pressed a tiny kiss onto his belly and then one into his groin. “May I?” he asked Illya and Illya had no idea what he wanted to do, but Illya wanted him to do it, so he nodded. Napoleon smiled and pressed a kiss to the head of Illya’s cock, darting his tongue out for a taste. “Okay, can I blow you? Then we need to talk serious business, but first I gotta get me a taste of this.”

“Okay,” Illya croaked and then groaned when Napoleon started lapping at his head, stroking his foreskin up and down.

He pulled away as Illya hardened under his ministrations to say, “Man, I love an uncut guy. Foreskin is the best,” before he ducked back down and slurped Illya’s dick back into his mouth, his hand moving in time with the bobbing of his head. Napoleon seemed to have it down to a science, looking up at Illya as he sucked, using his free hand to bring Illya’s to his hair, letting it settle there. He then braced the hand against Illya’s hipbone and took in a deep breath through his nose before sliding as far down Illya’s cock as he could go. Illya felt the head of his dick hit the back of Napoleon’s throat and he groaned and clutched at Napoleon’s hair at the hot, wet suction that sent shivers down his spine. Napoleon pulled back up with a tiny gag, spit and precome dripping in ropes from the corners of his mouth, but he kept sucking until Illya gasped that he was going to come. Napoleon’s eyes sparkled and he kept sucking, Illya coming down his throat. He swallowed as much as he could, cum bubbling out where he couldn’t slurp it up. He sat up, Illya’s cock wilting against his thigh, wiping cum from his lips with the back of his hand. He winked at Illya.

“You, my dear, taste amazing. It’s your stupidly healthy diet, but I thank you for it,” were the first words out of Napoleon’s mouth.

“You’re very welcome,” Illya said, not knowing what else to say, but loving that it made Napoleon laugh. He felt sleepy and sated, but Napoleon had wanted to talk, so they were damned well going to talk. And yet, his eyes were so droopy, that Illya could barely help himself.

“Hey, it’s okay. We can talk in the morning,” Napoleon said. Then he stopped. “Well, the later morning. It’s probably past three at the rate. No Oleg tomorrow right?” Illya shook his head, no. “Okay then. I’m obviously staying. And we can have serious conversations in the morning.”

“But…” Illya trailed off, gesturing to Napoleon’s half-hard state. Napoleon laughed and kissed Illya lightly on the mouth.

“Don’t you worry about that, honey. You can do me some other time when you’re not falling asleep and feel up to it, alright?” He got them both under the covers and pressed up close to Illya’s side, yawning himself. “Honestly, this is the best night ever,” he whispered against Illya’s neck as Illya began to drift off. Napoleon pressed a kiss into his skin. “Thank you.”

Illya tried to respond, but he was already falling off into sleep, Napoleon wrapped up in his arms where Illya felt he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon's line of 'if it's not too late for coffee, i'll be at your place in ten. We'll hit that all night diner and then we'll see.' is from the song [ Coffee by Copeland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzLL2brvI4c). They are fucking amazing and chill. I love them. The majority of this section of this fic are based on this song because it makes my heart feel like butterflies are sabotaging it or something like that, and because I am actually absolute trash. 
> 
> Also, I'm working on a fanmix for this fic. I don't remember if I've said that already. But when it's finally done, or you know by the last chapter of this - whichever comes first - I'll post the 8tracks link.


	8. Fixated On One Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that star is Napoleon, who doesn't mind being fixated on. Think of Ilya as an astronomer of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope I didn't startle anyone with this update. But I'm back and trying to finish this baby up. Holla! 
> 
> Anyway, definitely some sex in here and some fluff, both in great amounts. Hope it's okay. It's been a long summer and I feel rusty as fuck. But here it is, only like, two more chapters left. I think I'll have this done by the end of the semester. 
> 
> Thank goodness. I like having finished things. Anyway, enjoy!

Ilya woke up with the sun in his eyes and drool soaked into his pillow case. A pair of blue eyes were watching him from where they were situated on their owners beautiful face, and last night rushed into Ilya’s mind. Napoleon smiled at him, slow and sweet, and Ilya felt his stomach swoop. Napoleon’s hand was on his cheek, then brushing hair from his forehead, then lingering around his mouth, tracing his lips. Ilya’s hand went up and caught Napoleon’s fingers, pressing kisses to the tips.

“Morning,” Napoleon murmured, still smiling, and looking lovely in a halo of sunlight. He looked over at Ilya’s bedside table. “Or rather, afternoon. It’s almost one.” He laughed softly, his hair tousling and shining with highlighted streaks of red from the sun. “How are you?”

“Perfect,” Ilya said, complete honesty in his voice. “Good morning, Cowboy. You look…” He trailed off. “красивой.”

“Oh, shut up. You sweet talker,” Napoleon laughed, then bent down and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s lips. “That ok?” he asked, pulling back a fraction. Ilya nodded and swallowed hard before pressing forward himself and initiating a kiss. Napoleon smiled into it, moaning low in his throat as Ilya deepened it, pressing their tongues together. But then Napoleon groaned and pulled back. “No, wait. We need to talk first, remember?” But he gave Ilya’s pouting mouth one more peck.

“What we need to talk about?” Ilya asked, cracking his neck and sitting up. He suppressed a smile as Napoleon openly gawked at his body, lingering over the muscles moving under his skin.

“Ilya, I would like to formerly invite you into a relationship with me,” Napoleon said without further delay. His eyes were shining with eagerness and hope. “We’re… we’re gonna date, right?”

“I thought this was obvious,” Ilya said, forehead crumpling in confusion. Had that not been Napoleon’s plan from the start?

“Okay,” Napoleon said, sighing in relief. “Good, great.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Ilya’s stubbly cheek. “You should know I might scream from the rooftops that you’re my boyfriend.”

“Dramatic,” Ilya said with a roll of his eyes, but a spike of pleasure went through his stomach at the thought that Napoleon was so enthusiastic about their budding relationship. “Anything more?”

“… not really,” Napoleon said, but there was a sadness in his eyes that dimmed his happy light.

“What?” Ilya said, frowning. He brushed a strand of hair out of Napoleon’s face, marveling at the fact that he could do that now without second guessing himself. “Tell me, what bothers you?”

“It’s just… I wish I had gotten the courage to pursue this earlier,” Napoleon said, not meeting Ilya’s eyes. “The school year’s going to end in a few months. And then…”

It dawned on Ilya. “University.”

“Yeah. You’re going abroad, right?”

“Да,” Ilya said, feeling his stomach tighten in what he suspected was anguish. _Breathe_ , he reminded himself. _It’s no one’s fault, it’s life_ , a voice said in his head that sounded suspiciously like his therapist. He let out a calming breath and swallowed hard. “Where… do you go?”

“I’m waiting to hear back from my top choice,” Napoleon said, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s… I wanna go for Modern Languages and Literature. It’s a joint degree, in Rome. Italy.”

“Что?” Ilya said, his head snapping up in surprise.

“Yeah, uh, University of Rome, Tor Vergata. Their program is really promising, and I speak Italian, so I can easily take their courses in Italian, which would open up my possibilities for courses and… why are you staring at me like my head exploded? Look, we’re going to figure this out. Maybe… I dunno, maybe I can wait on school or – or, I don’t know…”

“Нет!” Ilya yelped. He took Napoleon’s face into his hands and pressed their foreheads together, trying not to laugh or cry, but ended up doing both.

“Ilya?” Napoleon asked, but Ilya felt like he was walking on air. How had they never discussed where they each wanted to go to university in detail? Because, he suspected, neither of them wanted to think about being parted from each other. How silly of them. Though they were quite different people, they were similar in more ways than Ilya thought. “Hey, what’s going on? You ok?

“I have been accepted to, and have accepted admission to, Sapienza University of Rome for civil and industrial engineering program,” Ilya said, tears of absolute happiness sliding down his cheeks. He rubbed his and Napoleon’s noses together. “Tor Vergata is, eh, half hour away? I will have car. Or motorcycle. I can see you. I can… _be_ with you.”

When he pulled away and opened his eyes, it was to Napoleon’s own eyes being filled with happy tears. “What the fuck kind of fate is this?” he laughed, wiping at his own tears. “My god, Peril.” He took Ilya’s hands in his own and squeezed them tight. “This might be the best day of my life. First, I get to touch you in all kinds of naughty ways in the early morning hours and now, well…” He shook his head and Ilya hung onto his every word. “Now, I find out you’re going to be practically down the street from me at school.”

“Eh, more like on other side of city,” Ilya pointed out, but Napoleon rolled his eyes and wiped at his face again.

“Semantics.”

“Very important semantics,” Ilya said, but he couldn’t even hold the argument. He was too happy. His chest hurt from the feelings in it and his face hurt from smiling so much. “Best day of my life.”

“Awh, Peril. Now you’re just copying me.”

“I am copy you?” Ilya said, kissing Napoleon’s hands in his. “Too bad. I… not very creative, huh?”

“Shut up,” Napoleon said, still laughing. “Well, that’s the most positive relationship/future talk I’ve ever had.” He shook his head. “Now what?” 

Illya swallowed hard, thinking about last night – or rather, earlier that morning. He cleared his throat and felt the back of his neck, and then his ears, go hot with embarrassment and probably turn bright red. “Uh, well. Last night… it seems that…I – uh…”

“Peril?” Napoleon said, trying hard not to smile. “Cat got your tongue?”

“What that is mean?” Illya said, flustered. “I mean, no. I.” He sighed in frustration. “Give me moment, yes?”

“Sure,” Napoleon said with a smirk. Illya had a feeling he knew exactly what Illya was trying to get at. “If you want something, you’ll have to ask for it though, Peril.”

“I know,” Illya snapped, then let out a breath to calm himself. Napoleon was more than willing. He just had to ask, to be vulnerable. But he had already proven that he could do that with Napoleon last night. “I would like to… um, not sure what you call it, but… I would like to oral sex you?” It ended on a question and Napoleon froze for a minute before chuckling.

“It’s called a blow job,” he said, not making fun of Illya, but gently correcting him. “And, yes, you can. Or,” he continued and Illya leaned forward, curious. “If you’d like, and you don’t have to, but if you’d like, you can try, uh, having sex with me. Like. Penetrative, not oral.”

Illya’s mouth fell open in surprise, but then he felt his dick hardening up against his thigh. He really did want to, but first, he needed to be sure that Napoleon understood something explicitly, before they did anything or went anywhere with it.

“I want to. But… I never have, uh, well… done this. With anyone,” he said, eyes on anything but Napoleon’s face. But soon, hands were on his cheeks, directing him to look at his _boyfriend,_ who was smiling just as gently as before.

“Hey, that’s ok. If you want to, I can do my best to show you. We can stop any time you want to, or keep going if you like it. Wanna give it a shot?” Napoleon asked. His eyes were so beautiful, Illya thought to himself. So kind, so deep and honest. He would be perfectly safe with this boy. So he nodded.

“We try.” To his surprise, Napoleon got out of bed to rummage around their discarded clothes on the floor. “Uh, Cowboy? You have screw loose? I am up here, on bed.”

“Gimme a sec,” Napoleon muttered. And then: “Aha!” He turned around with a condom packet. “I know I said I was clean yesterday, and since you haven’t been with anyone, I think we should assume that you are as well. But! I don’t want to risk anything until I can show you my papers saying I’m clean, so. Condom. Always got one in my wallet, and it’s better to use one of those than nothing at all, am I right?” Illya nodded, as it did make sense. “Sweet.”

Napoleon climbed back onto the bed, beautiful and naked with stripes of golden sunlight painting his skin from the French doors letting the light in behind him. And then he straddled Illya and winked, ripping open the condom packet. Illya thought Napoleon was going to slip it onto his own dick, but instead he turned questioning eyes on Illya.

“May I put it on you, or would you rather do that yourself?”

“Me?” Illya asked.

“Oh, shit. I assumed you’d want to be on top. I’m… more of a bottom myself, but I can switch if you’re more interested in trying that out instead,” Napoleon said, turning red and getting flustery.

“Oh, no. If you want it that way, I can do that,” Illya said. In truth, he had wanted to experience what it felt like being inside someone. It seemed an intimate gesture, something that brought people closer together. And if Napoleon preferred having someone inside of him, then Illya was eager to make him feel good. He was sure Napoleon would make him feel wonderful and he didn’t want to do anything but the same for the other young man.

“Oh, ok. If you ever wanna switch, let me know, alright? It’s totally ok,” Napoleon reassured him. Then he pointed at Illya’s rapidly hardening cock. “Uh, may I?” His smile was cheeky.

“ты можешь.” _You may,_ Illya said with a nod and a wink, which made Napoleon laugh. He did get to work though, licking his hand and giving Illya’s dick a few good strokes, easily getting him hard. Napoleon caught his gaze and slowly rolled the condom on without breaking eye contact, making Illya swallow just as hard as his cock was.

“God, you’re big,” Napoleon said, but not like it was a bad thing, like it was the best thing he had ever seen and was more than happy to accommodate Illya’s size. “Gimme a second to open up, yeah?” Before Illya could ask what he meant by that, Napoleon cast his eyes around the room and landed on some Vaseline Illya kept for days when his lips got especially dry. “That’ll do.” He got up, got the Vaseline and laid back on the bed with Illya.

Illya watched, throat bobbing and eyes hungry with lust, as Napoleon scooped Vaseline onto his fingers, reached back behind his balls, and probed his puckered hole with slick fingers, slowly breaching himself with tiny sighs of content. It took some minutes of slow stretching and probing for Napoleon to fit four fingers inside himself. Illya slowly stroked himself to the sight of Napoleon’s fingers disappearing into his body and tried not to choke on how badly he wanted to replace those fingers. Napoleon would let him when he felt ready.

Not long after, Napoleon wiped the remainder of the Vaseline on his fingers onto the bed sheet and threw a smile Illya’s way. “I think this will work best with me on top of you, that sound alright to you?” Illya could only nod. Napoleon climbed onto his lap and ran his fingers down the back of Illya’s neck, smoothing them over his shoulders. Illya could feel Napoleon’s hot dick hardening against his stomach as Napoleon pressed their foreheads together again.

“Doing okay there, Peril?” he asked.

Illya nodded, cleared his throat, and then said, “Yes.”

“Okie dokie,” Napoleon said. “Getting to the fun part, promise.” He rose from his knees to a crouch and reached for Illya’s cock, bringing it back to his hole and pressing the tip against it. Illya’s body tensed up immediately, but he forced out a breath and let Napoleon slowly ease himself onto it, letting out soft little moans, hitches of breath, and gasps that made Illya wanted to devour the very sounds coming out of his mouth. But he waited until Napoleon had slid all the way down his shaft with Illya’s balls against his ass. “Whoa,” Napoleon said.

“Yes?” Illya asked, rubbing a hand down Napoleon’s back. He was trying not to move. The heat and slickness of Napoleon’s body was better than his mouth that night before. He wanted to move and never stop until they both saw stars, but he had no idea what he was doing and he didn’t want to hurt Napoleon in any way.

“I think there needs to be a religion that worships your penis,” Napoleon said, sounding out of breath with a steady flush bleeding under his skin and painting him from his neck to navel in a large V shape. “Jesus, your head’s snug up against my prostate, holy fuck.” He leaned forward a tiny bit, jostling Illya inside of him and they both gasped. “Fuck ok. I’m gonna go slow.”

And slow he did. It was almost painful how he dragged himself up and down against Illya’s cock, making the latter see stars and gasp. Illya could only hope he wasn’t hurting Napoleon with the force of his grip on the other young man’s waist. His thumbs were dug into the divots of Napoleon’s hip bones, his fingers digging into the flesh of Napoleon’s ass, spreading them which made Napoleon’s head fall forward with his forehead resting on Illya’s shoulder. Napoleon clamped down around him and Illya bucked up, making Napoleon groan. He stopped, terrified he had done something wrong.

Napoleon lifted his head lazily, looking dazed. “Why’d you stop? Felt good,” he assured Illya. So Illya started to move, slow pushes of his hips going up and in, while Napoleon’s pushed down and on, picking up speed until Illya could hear the slap of sweaty flesh filling the room with their harsh breaths. Napoleon was leaned back a bit, using his leverage on the bed to bounce himself up and down, one hand on the headboard, the other on his own dick, pumping it as fast as he could in time with Illya’s thrusts into him. Illya ran his hands up and down Napoleon’s sides, then slid one hand over the head of his dick. It was enough to make Napoleon yelp, grind down hard on Illya’s cock, and cum in thick ropes against both their hands. He shuddered and leaned forward, kissing Illya hard on the mouth, feverish in his post-orgasm high.

“Hey, come on Illya, cum in me, yeah? Fill me up, won’t you? You’ll do that for me, won’t you, baby,” Napoleon was murmuring against his mouth, before pulling back to use his hands on the bed as leverage to slam himself down. He started tightening and untightening his muscles around Illya’s cock, all the while egging Illya on. It was this, as well as the obscene sight of Napoleon’s smaller, limp cock bouncing with their movements against his leg that made Illya cum so hard he saw spots of color. He gasped a few times and inhaled hard, his ears beginning to ring a bit.

It took a moment for him to blink away the spots, but then, Napoleon was slowly pulling Illya’s dick out of him with a slight squelch of Vaseline. He slid off the condom, expertly tied it up, and tossed it in the wastebasket nearby before collapsing onto his side beside Illya.

“Okay, that was... amazing,” he said, sounding breathy and exhausted.

“ _Ja_ ,” Illya said, swallowing hard. He felt like he had run a marathon and also taken potent drugs at the same time. He pursed his lips.

“What?” said Napoleon. “What’s with that look?”

“Not virgin any longer,” Illya merely said.

“Eh,” Napoleon said. “Don’t let society get you down. S’just a societal norm used to control and humiliate women, anyway.”

“True,” Illya conceded. He wasn’t disappointed or guilty about it though. He was… glad, in a way. “I… am glad it was you, Cowboy.”

“Yeah?” Napoleon said, suddenly looking shy, which seemed pointless to Illya after what they had just been doing. “You don’t… I don’t know, you don’t mind that I’ve been with a bunch of people before you?”

Illya frowned. Should he mind? He didn’t think so. “Nein, I do not mind. Your business, yes? Not mine. We are couple now, that is all that matters to me.” He moved a sweaty, cowlick of hair from Napoleon’s bright eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Napoleon said, though he looked strangely like he was going to cry. “Thank you,” Napoleon blurted, looking a bit embarrassed.

“… you welcome?” Illya said back a bit confused.

“I’ll explain later,” Napoleon assured him, though Illya had a feeling it had to do with not shaming him for his sexuality. “Wanna nap?” Napoleon asked, while simultaneously cleaning his stomach of its mess with a corner of the sheets and climbing under it. Illya would definitely need to do laundry after this. But a nap did sound good.

“Yes. We nap. It sounds like good plan. We talk more later, yes?” he said, sliding in under Napoleon. He pulled Napoleon close to him, their bodies still a bit sweaty. He knew they would cool down and appreciate the shared body-heat later, though.

And, tangled up in each other, they fell asleep.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent lazing about the house. They showered together slowly, kissing under the hot water with Napoleon shrieking when it started to run cold. Ilya did laundry while Napoleon cooked something up and fed them, then they sat in the library, Illya on an armchair with Napoleon in his lap. Illya read Bulgakov’s _The Master and Margarita_ aloud in its original Russian, Napoleon stopping him every few pages to ask about a word or phrase in the same language, Illya clarifying in either Russian or German.

It was a soothing evening, with Illya trying not to remember that Oleg was due in the morning of the next day. For now, he had Napoleon, his _boyfriend_ , and they had the whole house to themselves.

It was then that he noticed Napoleon's hand gently palming him through his pants. 

“Ты не хитрый,” Ilya murmured into Napoleon’s hair. _You’re not subtle_.

“I was thinking,” Napoleon began.

“Yes, when you should be listening,” Ilya responded, eyes closed as he inhaled the scent of his own shampoo in Napoleon’s hair. It filled him with such happiness, this gorgeous boy did.

“That nice, oak desk over there,” Napoleon continued as though he had not been interrupted. “I think I would be comfortable leaned across it, or on my back on top of it…” He trailed off and Ilya bit his lip, trying not to laugh at his boyfriend’s lack of subtlety.

“So, you want me to fuck against desk, huh?” Ilya said, voice low in the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. He could hear Napoleon swallow with a click. Perfect. “I can do that.”

The next fifteen minutes has Napoleon naked and braced on the table, arms stretched across it and holding onto the far edge for dear life, a leg hiked up on the table to open him up and spread him out better. Ilya drove into him from behind, pants around his ankles and shirt rucked up his front as he leaned as close as he could to Napoleon and whispered things into his ear that made the both of them blush with more than lust and sexual exertion. He was too sweet, he thought, all the words muddled up in his mind so that only sweet endearments in Russian could come from his lips until he spilled inside of Napoleon and then flipped him over, so his sweaty, nude body could press onto the table. He spread Napoleon’s legs and ducked his head down, taking him into his mouth and watching out for his teeth, trying to do as Napoleon had done for him earlier. Napoleon bucked up into his mouth, apologized for almost choking him, and gently guided him while moaning himself. He warned Ilya when he was close to climax, but Ilya didn’t move, welcomed the salty but bitter thickness of cum over his tongue and down his throat. He pulled off, the stuff still a bit gummy in his mouth when he rose from his knees to kiss Napoleon silly.

They retired earlier than usual, curling up in bed after Napoleon had assured his parents that he was just keeping Ilya company while Oleg had been out of town. Ilya tried not to think of his uncle and his presence returning to Ilya’s life the following day. As it was, he just wanted to fall asleep with Napoleon wrapped around him and pretend tomorrow would never come.

“You going to tell them?” Ilya asked once Napoleon had gotten off the phone with is father.

“Yeah, end of the week I think, so that it’s a bit less likely they’ll put two and two together and realize I was here getting naughty with you all weekend,” Napoleon responded, his cheeks dimpling with his dazzling smile.

“And we must tell Gabby,” Ilya insisted. “Probably tomorrow.”

“Awh, Peril,” Napoleon complained, though with no real disappointment in his voice, so Ilya could smile without feeling bad about it. “You don’t want to mess with her? Drop hints here and there, so she thinks something’s going on, then deny it all to see the look on her face when she tries to catch us lying only to walk in on us at the end of the week making out in an empty classroom?”

“You have thought about this for too long, Cowboy,” Illya said with a small frown. “Very dramatic.”

“This is the best set up for a prank that we may ever get in our lives,” Napoleon insisted.

Ilya paused, and then said with brutal honesty, “But… I want to kiss you. Whenever I feel like it.”

Napoleon was silent. And then: “I can’t even be mad about the wasted opportunity because that was the sweetest fucking thing anyone has ever expressed about dating me.”

Ilya hid his smile in his pillow and pressed his back closer to Napoleon’s chest where the other boy was wrapped tight around him. “I will think of something small. But no week of this, yes?”

“Awh, baby. You spoil me,”: Napoleon murmured, then yawned, settling down. “Alarm set?”

“Ja,” Ilya responded, getting a bit tired himself.

“Goodnight then, Ilyushka,” Napoleon teased, settling himself down.

“Спокойной ночи, мой маленький соловей,” Ilya whispered back, the endearment falling on deaf ears as Napoleon was already dead to the world. Ilya settled in for the night and let himself drop off into sleep as well.

_Goodnight, my little nightingale._

* * *

 The next morning, they left the house before Oleg got back and stopped by Napoleon’s house so the latter could change and grab his school things. Ten minutes later, they were on their way to school, smiling at each other and holding hands over the center console between where they sat. Ilya didn’t think he had ever been to school this early, never really having gone out for sports or extracurriculars that would require him to come early.

They walked into the building holding hands, Napoleon completely at ease and Ilya immediately on the defensive, just in case. They didn’t live anywhere _too_ conservative, and the school was one of the safer places to display affection, but Ilya was still on his guard, though more in a ‘I dare you to say something about my happiness’ sort of way than anything else. He had worked hard with himself to get to this point and he didn’t want careless comments from those who didn’t matter to ruin it for either of them. Napoleon tried and failed to hide a smile, letting go of Ilya’s hand to root around in his locker for books.

“I saw that,” Ilya said, smiling himself. Napoleon turned around and stuck his tongue out. “Pushing your luck, Cowboy,” Ilya teased.

“Oh, am I?” Napoleon responded. “I’m. So. Scared.” He blew a raspberry and laughed.

“What, I am not so scary now that I give you some butterfly kisses, huh?” Ilya asked as Napoleon shut his locker, spun the lock, and turned around to lean against it and get a good look at his boyfriend.

“Nah,” Napoleon said with a shrug. “No scared cos my boyfriend can kick your ass.” He smiled, the look smug and suiting him. Ilya crowded him up against the locker, hands on either side of him.

“Really, you two can’t get along for five minutes?” Both teens turned to look where Gaby’s voice had come from. She stood there, looking cute in her denim overalls and shimmery t-shirt underneath, hip cocked with a hand braced against it, frowning at the two of them. “You were doing so well.” There was actual disappointment in her voice, and both teens were glad that she could be so open and honest with them about how their supposed lack of easy friendship made her feel. “I wish you two would just kiss and make up,” she said with a huff and eyeroll, beginning to turn to her locker.

“Oh?” Ilya said. “Alright. Cowboy, pucker up, yes?” Ilya said, thrilled at the look of excitement in Napoleon’s eyes. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the prank he had had in mind, but the fact that he was willing to prank her even a little bit like this was enough to make him smile like he had the world in his hands.

“Oh, haha,” Gaby said in a mock-laugh. “You two aren’t fun-”

Ilya leaned down as Napoleon leaned up and they shared a sweet, chaste kiss, Ilya’s arms sliding down from where they were pressed against the locker and entwining themselves around Napoleon’s waist while Napoleon’s hands went to Ilya’s cheek and the back of his neck, stroking the skin their softly.

“-ny, _oh mein Gott_ ,” Gaby yelped as they pulled back from one another and smiled soft smiles that made their hearts ache for each other. “ _Nie!”_

“I thought you would be happier than that,” Napoleon snorted, pulling away and letting Ilya help him readjust his backpack. “Didn’t you think she would be happier than that?” Napoleon asked Ilya.

“Yes,” Ilya said, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he focused on getting the straps on Napoleon’s backpack perfectly even. Napoleon stared at him over his shoulders, adoration shining in his eyes for all to see, ignoring Gaby’s wet _awh_ as she fawned over them.

“You are magnificent,” Napoleon said once Ilya had finally looked up. Ilya’s brown furrowed, but he accepted the compliment, especially as it was followed with a peck to the lips that left him grinning.

“Finally!” Gaby yelled, then smacked Napoleon on the arm.

“Ow!” Napoleon yelped.

“Oi!” Ilya hissed. “No hitting.”

“And this one’s for you,” Gaby said as the only warning before she smacked Ilya on the arm as well. He rubbed it, knowing he could have dodged her tiny fist if he had wanted to, but wanting his and Napoleon’s shared suffering to be fair. “You two have actually managed to get your heads out of your asses, which is a miracle in itself.” Then she looped one of her arms into each of theirs and walked between them down the hall to their homeroom class. “That being said, I need every detail of how this happened. Every single one! After all, we’re all friends.”

“And family,” Ilya pointed out, making Napoleon grimace.

“Yes, and family,” Gaby said in triumph. She gave Ilya a look from the corner of her eye. “By the way, about that. Welcome to ours, Ilya.”

And, with his face burning bright red and Napoleon smiling brightly back at him in agreement, Ilya grudgingly didn’t protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop there it is. Thanks. 
> 
> Next part: coming... soon-ish.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yo, [here's the post](http://dionysuslover.tumblr.com/post/138842688075/7-minutes-in-heaven-a-napollya-high-school-au-in) I started this all on. Haha. Did some shitty PS art. Have at it kids. (That's also my personal tumblr. Feel free to follow or shoot asks or whatever!)
> 
> Also: German Translations!  
> Er ist sehr schön. Ich verspreche es dir: He is very beautiful. I promise you.  
> Die Kinder der Zukunft: The Children of the Future.  
> Ich hasse dich: I hate you.  
> Ich weiβ es nicht. Aber, geh einfach!: I don't know. But go! 
> 
> And the one Italian/Spanish/Portuguese word:  
> Puta: bitch/prostitute/whore


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